


Poorly-Titled Alt-Harry Potter Fanfic Because Sorcery

by AnyMajorDude



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Astral Projection, Canon-what-canon?, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Having a ball here, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Just a hint of facism, M/M, Marijuana, Multi, No Way, Other, Psychological Trauma, Sorry-not-sorry, actual physical trauma too, definitely not, definitely not marijuana guys, incipient lesbianism, original male character (warning: may turn out to be a douche), pretentious pseudo-magical hogwash, school year 1997-1998, stick me in the trash can i'm done, this might get dirty, totally off piste, what happens in the astral planes stays in the astral planes, what happens in war, who am i kidding its definitely going to get dirty, wow there are Actual Capitalised Tags and everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6542737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyMajorDude/pseuds/AnyMajorDude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...the motto of this school, I would remind you. Draco Dormiens, Nunquam Titillandus. Never poke a sleeping dragon. A sterling piece of advice in all walks of life, but which I would recommend you all most strongly to apply in your dealings with this form of magic. You will be drawing upon a fathomless well of power, and the currents run deep. Tread lightly."</p><p>aka, what happens at Hogwarts while Harry Potter and his friends are swanning around the place saving everybody. </p><p>Mostly told from the perspective of Ginny and Luna, this is what happens during their sixth year/HP's seventh year, under the thumb of Voldie's minions at Hogwarts, because they weren't just waiting around for Big Hero Potter to show up and put them all in mortal danger. </p><p>Warning! May contain: Self-insert OMC (but he's an asshole so that's okay), mild drug use, poorly-written sex, non-canon/off-script nonsense, elements nicked shamelessly from other media (such as The Forgotten Realms), highly dubious magical systems, pop-culture references.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

April 3rd, 1997.

  
The room is always gloomy, even in summer. This evening, the faint-hearted efforts of a single candle on the desk cannot do much against the lengthening shadows. Bright, delicate instruments cover every available surface; they tick, whirr, clunk and occasionally explode, all tainted by the sickly green light of the fireplace. Rolls of parchment are scattered across the wide, ancient desk, the debris of a cluttered mind relying too heavily on notes and reminders to keep itself in order. The old man’s voice is tired, a once-hearty clarion turned hoarse.

  
‘Your objections are noted, Severus. Unless anything else comes up, we ought to be careful when we speak. We have little time left, and much to accomplish.

  
A faint echo, but an unmistakeably nasal and churlish tone. ‘...Yes, Headmaster. As you say.’

  
With a quiet whoosh of emerald flame, Albus Dumbledore withdraws his head from the fire. Straightening up and dusting off his robes with his good hand, he lets out a small sigh. So many things to take care of before the end. Though it has, of course, required an alteration to his plans, a tiny part of him will be glad when this year – and all his years – come to an end. It will be...pleasant, to rest at last.

  
A gentle knock at the door, and he banishes this thought to the back of his mind. The castle is quiet, this evening. During exams most of the students are safely sequestered in their commons rooms or the library, trying desperately to fill the corners of their brain with extra knowledge, like packing scraps of cloth into a bag already bursting at the seams.

  
‘Come’

  
The door swings silently open. Albus settles himself behind the desk, his shield of solidity and oaken resolve for longer than he cares to admit. Wars have been fought on this desk, battles lost and won, pawns sacrificed. The youngish-looking man who enters the room has not been one of them for many years. It surprised Albus that he agreed, even in principal, to this meeting.

  
‘Professor’.

  
Albus makes the motions of hospitality. ‘Please, come in. Sit. Would you care for something to eat, or drink? I suppose you must have had a long journey,’ although, he readily admits, he has no idea where the man has been since they parted ways in the Black Forest. The visitor comes closer, and the dim sputtering of the candle illuminates... ruddy, tousled hair and a short beard, framing hooded grey eyes. A travel-stained robe of faded olive, held together with a rawhide strip. A satchel of the same rough leather at his waist. He sits.

  
‘It’s very kind of …you to offer, Professor. Actually, I brought something to drink.’ He rummages in the satchel and withdraws a long flask of blue glass and pot metal. ‘They brew it from cactus …flowers. Something in the water, too. Quite potent, but all new …sensations are to be welcomed, don’t you agree?’

  
The young man’s voice has lost none of its peculiar cadence – the way he speaks is off-key to the point of being hypnotic, as if English were not only his second language but that speaking were an altogether inferior method of communication. Which, Albus supposed, was true. After a fashion. He conjures up a pair of small, decorative glasses, and the man uncorks his flash and decants a short measure into each. Passing one across the desk to Albus, the visitor raises his glass, raises an eyebrow, and sinks the liquor in one go. Albus catches a whiff of the foul-smelling stuff before he drinks. The smell, however, is nothing to the taste.

  
After the brief and customary burn of strong alcohol, there comes a metallic tang that seems to coat his sinuses. This is followed by the actual taste of the liquid – which is as foul as the smell – and then, unexpectedly and not unpleasantly, a sensation of swimming, as if in an ocean of distilled dreams, a banana-scented wave bowling him over, the secrets of the universe explained by a buffalo-headed god, the taste of purple ink and the feel of tangerine jelly, a bed of rubber nails and the smoulder of a peat fire and

  
Albus sits up in his chair. The young man is watching him, grey eyes unwavering. The impressions are gone as quickly as they came. He struggles, for a second or two, to find words.

  
‘I...Most extraordinary...what on earth?’ he manages.

  
‘As I said, something in the water. I have yet to work …out what, but I’m having enormous fun trying’. The young man flashes a grin, and Albus chuckles. Sixty years of conflicted history lie between them, but the gulf has lessened considerably in just a few minutes.  

  
‘A new sensation indeed. You have my thanks. Wonders, as they say, never cease’

  
‘If they did, we’d all be the poorer …for it. You called me here for a reason, Professor. Forgive …my abruptness, but I have, as you so kindly pointed out, come a very long way.’

  
‘Ah, yes. Yes indeed. Have you given any thought to my proposal?’

  
‘I have some questions.’

  
‘Naturally.’ There is an impatience to the young man. He has already made his decision. Good.

  
‘Firstly, I’ll need a small room set …aside and released from the usual wards and charms. Actually, …a stretch of wall would be enough. Rather than discommode myself by moving into the castle, I can simply …establish a direct link to my home. Second, I’ll need a classroom with extremely …potent damping spells. The closer the former is to the latter, the better …for me. Thirdly,’ and here the young man drew a ragged scrap of parchment from his satchel and placed it on the desk, ‘These items, a decent supply of all of them. There’s nothing …too extravagant there – if there is, I’ll bring it myself. And I get to choose my students.’

  
Albus leans back in his chair. He had expected it to be harder than this. ‘A classroom and study with suitable, er… wall space, should be no problem. Filius will be able to deal with your requirements as regards the protective wards. Whatever supplies you need will be in place by the start of term. And the students... As you know, when I invited you here, it was with regard to one student in particular. The circumstances have now changed somewhat – he will not be your concern; in fact, it is increasingly likely that he will no longer be at the school next year. There are others, however, who might benefit from your particular expertise. Minerva will ensure that the right people come together, as she always does. However... I don’t know how much you know regarding the situation with Tom Riddle?’

  
The young man regards Albus, his grey eyes fixed on the twinkling blue of the headmaster’s. ‘You wish me to keep my skills out of reach to any who might be affiliated …with Riddle? From what I understand, that more or less excludes the …whole of Slytherin house, not to mention casting doubt on most of the pureblood families.’

  
‘Not necessarily.’ Albus says, ticking items off an invisible list. ‘There are few students outside of Slytherin with any connection to Tom or his activities, this time round. There are even a handful of Slytherins that you could consider – those without allegiance. From what I understand of the practice, hardly any of the Ravenclaws will fit the bill – Miss Lovegood, perhaps, will demonstrate the necessary qualities. The Hufflepuffs are fiercely loyal to this school and to each other, and the Gryffindors are...well, Gryffindors. There should be no difficulty keeping word of this little experiment from the ears of Tom and his compatriots. In any case, it is my estimation that he considers this branch of magic – like alchemy or true scholarship – beneath his contempt, a means to an end if he considers it at all. Therein, of course, lies our advantage.’

  
The young man says nothing. After a moment’s pause, he stands and offers his hand to the Headmaster, who shakes it. The deal is done, and the debt of sixty years will be repaid. As the young man is almost at the door, one more thing occurs to Albus.

  
‘What name will you take?’

  
‘A good question. Crowley, I think. An old favourite.’

  
‘Crowley?’ Albus is surprised. ‘The man was a charlatan.’

  
The young man looks over his shoulder, and his eyes register amusement. ‘I’ll be here under false pretenses. It seems only fitting. See you next year... Headmaster.’

  
‘Alas. I fear not.’ The young man looks quizzical. Albus feels no obligation to divulge the details. Already there is a tiny seed of doubt, blooming deep in his stomach – a feeling he has not truly experienced since the Black Forest, when he was much younger and more headstrong. He has planned and plotted for years, decades even... but what if it the whole structure should rely too heavily on one joist? Love is a powerful weapon indeed, but friends with fire are not to be sniffed at.

  
‘Minerva will make sure that you are able to carry out this task. The rest I leave in your capable hands.’

  
‘And if I need help?’

  
Albus allows himself a small smile. ‘It is a notorious aphorism, and a phrase I am overly fond of, but what I have always said remains true: Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.’


	2. The Orchard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit hogwashy, due to wrote-it-two-years-ago-so-tone-doesn't-quite-fit-with-the-rest-of-the-work issues. May be rewritten.

### The Calm

July 27th, 1997

Ginny screamed. She filled the air with sorrow, grief, despair and rage, pouring everything into the scream, draining every drop of acid from her soul and giving it all voice. Stopping only when after a minute or so her voice cracked, she began sobbing involuntarily. Staggering a few paces and collapsing with a thud onto a tree stump, she put her chin in her hands and let the tears flow freely, let the great racking sobs heave up from her chest, and felt a tidal wave of misery, pressure and nausea overwhelm her. At last, she vomited. 

It took her at least ten minutes to regain her composure. Eventually, looking up at the stars as they faded from view behind the advancing barrier of spells and charms, Ginny wiped her eyes, drank a mouthful of pumpkin juice from the small flask she had brought with her, swirled and spat. It was indecorous, but that had never bothered her. What did bother her, what she would never do, not any more, was show weakness in front of others. Especially not her parents. She took another draught, swallowing it this time, and felt the cool liquid flooding her, restoring some sense of balance and normality. All the dread and pain was dampened for now, and Ginny Weasley felt able once again to deal with the world. 

She stood, drawing her wand from her sleeve, and with a wave dispelled the soundproof shell she had cast over the orchard. That was enough. The first portkey would be arriving within the hour, and doubtless all hell would break loose shortly afterwards. She was no longer sick with worry or fear, no longer crippled by doubt or reckless with anger. She would leave all that behind in the orchard, and all that would remain was the fight, the steel-skulled determination and the flame that burned in her. She was a warrior, no matter what her parents or her lover were trying to shield her from. 

Ginny turned down the hill towards the drunken confection of a house that had been her home for sixteen years. The others were standing in the yard, casting protective spells into the sky. Time to join the fight. 

### The Storm

Blessedly, for once, for the first time perhaps, no-one questioned her. No one asked where she had been. No one asked why she was there. And no one, thank Merlin, questioned her right to be there. Perhaps the transformation she had undergone in the orchard registered on her face. Perhaps the others were too busy, too wrapped in their own thoughts to notice her, features set, wand clasped tightly in her hand. It was quite possible, she supposed, after a moment’s guilty thought, that the reason no-one questioned her presence was that she was expected to be there, and that they had other things to worry about. 

Her mother, possibly for the first time in her life, was standing still. Staring at the sky, like the others. All trace of her usual bustle, the cheery words and nervous energy that served to cover her near-permanent anxiety, was gone. Instead she stood, waiting, watching, like an animal poised for flight. Her father was somewhere else, walking the boundaries, testing and checking the protective enchantments that had stood, fine and untried, the last three times as well. His own form of nervous energy. 

Ginny wondered if this was what war was like. She knew, from the Order and from her parents, that the last war had been terrible, had been traumatic, so many dead, so many more injured in one way or another. When she pictured those years, if she ever did so, it was as a series of mighty battles, of plotting and scheming and moments of great heroism and terrible tragedy. Now, she supposed, this was closer to the truth. Most of war was waiting. Hoping, praying, yes. But waiting, knowing your own powerlessness, for something to happen to, or at, or around you.

She tried to remember when she had last stood and simply listened to the sound of her home. Had she ever? As a child, perhaps. The chickens scratching and scuffling, the breeze rolling down off the hill and through the trees, the welcome clatter of pots and pans and knives from the beating heart of the home, her mother’s kitchen. Occasional explosions from Fred and George’s room. Whatever the sound of home had been, it was still now, and the world held its breath in that stillness.

And was broken.

### The Aftermath

It was after one in the morning before Ginny closed the door to her bedroom at last and leant back against it, shaking a little. She had expected, after tonight’s ordeal, to cry herself to sleep – but tears did not come. Instead the flame which had been kindled earlier that night, as she stood in the orchard and discarded childish things, burned a little brighter. Despite Mad-Eye, despite George’s ear, despite everything that had happened, she could think only that here was another mark in the ledger, one more thing that the Dark Lord owed her. It was not enough that Harry was out of reach – partly through his own infuriating sense of nobility, it was true – but now there was blood to repay.

She did not seriously think that she would be the one to draw it, but it drove her nonetheless. Ginny crossed to her bed, the lighter patches on her wall where posters and photographs had been until this morning glowing with a little extra moonlight. They were in a box under her bed now, along with a few stuffed toys and the countless detritus of a girl’s adolescence. Ginny Weasley was not sentimental, as a rule, but she had left one or two reminders of happier times in their place; photos of herself with Harry, Luna and Hermione, taken by Ron at the edge of the lake last spring; a Ministry poster denying the return of Voldemort, upon which Fred or George had scrawled a snakey face and the words ‘He who must not be named, heard, seen or talked about, by order, Cornyliar Smudge’; a pressed lizard, terminal surprise etched upon its leathery face.

Ginny undressed, flinging her clothes – stained with mud and George’s blood – in the direction of the wardrobe, and let the bone-deep tiredness she had been fighting for hours wash over her. She had barely had a chance to talk to Harry – who was now just a few feet away, in Ron’s room, a matter of perhaps ten steps from her door. She briefly entertained the idea of walking in – wearing only her smalls, but Ron’s indignation would be swiftly surpassed – and dragging him back here to take her mind off...everything. How blissful it would be to lose themselves in the pursuit of pleasure, just for a few hours. 

Memories of the orchard came back to her then. Was this, too, to be locked away and forgotten about, until some brighter day? Ginny was not sure she could survive the horrors that she was sure were to come, if it were not for the love she felt - for Harry, for her family, for her friends. As she tried to clear her mind and allow exhaustion to finally claim her, another, equally disturbing thought floated across her mind. If she could not allow herself to feel love, would the war be worth fighting at all?


	3. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fixed the chapter title/scene title thing. Not that you care.

### Bells

August 1st, 1997

There were no mirrors in the Lovegood house – shiny surfaces attracted Nargles, after all – but her father assured Luna that she looked ‘delightful’ as she descended the cramped spiral staircase from her room. She had spent a pleasant afternoon trying on every dress in a tiny robe shop in Malmö, barely a week ago, and had decided on this one only after much deliberation and more than a few exasperated looks from the proprietor, a pinch-faced Swedish wizard who gave the distinct impression that she was not his ideal customer. It was buttercup-and-gold, flouncy in places, sleek in others, and plunged alarmingly in the back. Luna had decided to wear her favourite necklace backwards to compensate for this – a long gold and bronze chain with a talon pendant, which occasionally poked into the flesh between her shoulders as she took Xeno’s offered arm and they left for the wedding. 

She still felt a little sadness at the news, the day before, of Alastor Moody’s death. He had saved her life in the Department of Mysteries, in his own way – shoving her roughly to one side and batting Dolohov’s curse away like an afterthought. On balance, though, she was looking forward to the wedding, and the chance to see all her friends again. They could not apparate to the Burrow, and it was a nice enough day, so Xeno had suggested they walk the short distance over the hill. Luna was secretly hoping to spot one of the wild Thestrals that had taken up residence in the woods on the edge of the village.

In the end, there was no sign of the silent, strangely comforting beasts. Possibly they were hiding from her. Luna and her father arrived at the Burrow just as the sun reached its zenith, and Xeno wasted no time in cornering Dedalus Diggle, who had arrived shortly before them and was already halfway into a bottle of butterbeer, his ever-present violet topper askew. 

‘Luna!’ The hissed voice came apparently from nowhere as Luna stood off to one side in the sprawling kitchen of the Burrow. Molly Weasley and a striking, silver-haired witch Luna assumed to be Madame Delacour were sniping passive-aggressive remarks over a table groaning with food, and witches and wizards in black-and-white dress robes were flitting back and forth, trying to look busy while keeping half an ear on the diplomatic spat. Luna looked around, an expression of benign incomprehension on her face. She had definitely heard her name called, but all these people seemed to be busy – she suspected, in fact, that a few of them hadn’t even noticed her.

‘Luna!’ came the voice again. A second later, something small and hard jabbed into her shoulder. Luna turned, raising one hand to ward off any potential Nargles, but the truth was much more prosaic. Ginny Weasley was crouched on the top step of the stairs, her wand poking through the banisters. She had an expression of deep perturbation on her face, and wore only a towel. ‘Hurry up, I need your help!’ she whispered, and promptly disappeared back up the stairs.

  


### Balls

“What in the name of Merlin’s hairy BALLS is this supposed to be!” Ginny exploded, as soon as Luna had closed the bedroom door. Hermione Granger, who was barely visible behind a mass of sky-blue satin in the middle of the tiny bedroom, looked briefly scandalised before allowing herself a giggle. “It’s not that bad,” she said, “really, Ginny. Hi Luna!”

Luna waved, momentarily unsure of herself. She never knew exactly how to react to expressions of warmth at her arrival - especially from Hermione, who had once viewed her, she was sure, as a little bit silly. She seemed genuinely pleased to see Luna - but then, she had turned straight back to whatever she was doing behind the Sky-Blue Thing. Perhaps this was just a normal greeting.

Luna became vaguely aware that Ginny was talking to her.

“Mmm. What?” 

Ginny’s look of extreme exasperation deepened. “I said, how the hell am I meant to wear this? It was designed for a stupid  Veela! ”

“This is…clothes?” Luna said, and flushed involuntarily as Hermione giggled again. “I mean, this is… oh! It’s your dress!”

“It’s not my dress, it’s bloody  Mademoiselle Gabrielle’s dress!” Ginny’s French accent was both appalling and appallingly accurate. “I just have to wear it because we’re supposed to be identical  fucking twins!”

Luna knew Ginny was deeply fond of Muggle swearing, but had not heard her use that word at that volume before. Hermione had gone bright red - not in the usual metaphorical way, Luna noticed, but really red, to the roots of her hair. 

“Ginny! You shouldn’t… someone’ll hear you!” she half-gasped, trying hard to conceal her amusement.

If you wanted to make certain that Ginny Weasley would scream something at the top of her lungs, Luna knew, telling her not to because someone would hear her was probably in the top three ways of doing it. She prepared herself for a violent outburst, and was slightly surprised when Ginny turned, looked hard at the dress and then seemed to shrink slightly, as if rolling all her anger into a ball and putting it away somewhere hidden. Her friend had an unusual expression on her face, one that Luna had not seen before. 

“Let’s just… get it done. Have you figured out what this stupid thing is yet?” She tugged roughly at something behind the mass of the dress that Luna couldn’t see. 

“I just got that the right way round!” Hermione chided her, “I think it’s meant to go over your… well, over you.”

“What? How? I mean…” Ginny turned the huge flounce of lace, silk and what looked like net curtains this way and that, as if trying to fit it into her own personal universe. Luna perched herself on the edge of Ginny’s bed, trying to concentrate on the dress and how it might work, because that seemed a better alternative than noticing how her friend’s towel was now severely dislodged and really serving no purpose whatsoever. 

With a decent amount of grumbling and swearing - though less than Luna would have expected - the three of them managed to get Ginny between the folds of the dress perpendicularly, and eventually the arrangement could be improved no further. Luna had welcomed the opportunity to get involved in this complex feat of topography, while some small and little-examined part of her brain alternately sang bright and sunny hymns and wondered at Ginny’s apparent comfort with her own towel-lessness and Hermione’s apparent unfazedness by this absence of towel. Perhaps this, too, was normality.

“Right. Fine. It’s on. Counting the minutes til I can get the f…wear normal clothes again” Ginny regarded herself critically in the shimmering mirror that hovered in mid air opposite the window. “Actually, if you ignore the…,” Hermione waved a hand half-heartedly at some of the more extreme peripheries of the dress, “this, it’s quite nice. The fabric and your…” 

“Don’t tell me it goes well with my hair! The French bloody ambassador has already spent more than enough time complimenting  ze, ow you say, boldness of your couturreest , as if I paid to have it this colour.”

“It is lovely though. The colour, I mean. The complimenting colours,” somebody said, and Luna realised it had been her. Ginny looked at her and for a moment Luna thought she was about to say something to make Hermione blush again, but she simply scowled. A short, tight, almost-smile of a scowl that disappeared not quite quickly enough for Luna to notice. 

“Er, Ginny…,” Hermione said, reaching down and bringing up two strange looking objects in a matching shade of sky blue, “I think… you might need these too.”

Thankfully, Luna thought, there was far too much noise and bustle in the rest of the house for anyone to hear what Ginny had just said.

### Bill

Luna had made an excuse and slipped away from Ginny’s room as the Problem of Shoes became apparent. She preferred not to talk about, think about or wear shoes unless strictly necessary. Even with her bright and brilliant yellow dress, she was wearing golden sandals that left her feet free as far as possible. Slipping through the loosely-organised madness that was the pre-wedding house was an easy feat - Mrs Weasley and Madame Delacour had taken their battle elsewhere and she didn’t really know any of the other people she saw, so she didn’t bother to notice them.

In the garden she could see, some distance away past the enormous marquee being erected for the wedding, some of the male Weasleys congregating in standard Awkward Male Unsure Of Purpose At Wedding poses. Before she could identify any of them close up, however, she smelled something that made her smile, briefly, and then frown. 

Following the trail, she found Bill Weasley perched on top of the coal bunker, his dress robes enveloped in a shining haze and, even as he saw her and tried to conceal it, a clay pipe in his mouth. Bill coughed, spluttered, attempted to look innocent and finally gave up.

“Hullo, sunflower. What have you come as?”

“Hello William. I’ve heard smoke is good for controlling the spread of Bundimuns. I’m sure your mother will appreciate your hard work,” Luna giggled.

“Don’t you bloody dare!” Bill began, before breaking into a grin. “She’s too busy fighting the battle of Agincourt all over again anyway. Haven’t seen you properly in a long time, young Niffler. How holds the hearth?”

“She holds right well,” she replied in sing-song fashion. “No-one calls me Niffler any more, Bill.”

“Someone should. No-one calls me William, for that matter. You still like shiny things, I see.” He gestured at her necklace.

“It’s a Quintuped claw. If you hang it over sunless water, it shows you the way to the sea.”

“Handy little thing.”

Luna settled herself on the oil-felt roof of the coal bunker beside him. “You can smoke, you know. I don’t mind. I always liked the smell.”

Bill chuckled guiltily. “I probably shouldn’t be. I promised Fleur I’d give it up - or at least only do it with her. But one last hurrah, I figured, before the big push.”

“You’re nervous about the wedding” Luna said, and then laughed.

“Course I bloody am,” Bill said, sounding slightly less jovial than he had probably intended. “Nothing funny about it. Everyone gets nervous before weddings - Fleur’s probably upstairs smashing vases off the walls.”

“No, I mean… Well, you’re getting married, to someone you obviously love, so you can spend the rest of your lives together. And you’re nervous. And you fought a werewolf, but you weren’t nervous then. It’s just… a bit funny, I suppose” Luna said, thoughtfully. 

Bill didn’t answer, busying himself with refilling the pipe and fussing over extending the charm that protected his robes from the thick, potent smoke to protect Luna as well. Eventually, after taking a long, deep draw on the pipe and blowing a rather charming heart-shaped smoke ring, he said: “I was nervous when I fought him, Luna. I mean, I think I was. Basically I was sh- crapping myself. But you do it anyway, I suppose. You can be nervous, but you still have to fight.”

“As long as you can shit yourself and cast curses at the same time, you mean?” Luna asked, in what she hoped was a suitably serious voice. Bill started to laugh, and then descended into a fit of spluttering. When he had quite recovered, he waved the pipe at her. It was not the first time he had offered her a smoke, but as always she declined. It always seemed to her that there were quite enough interesting things in the world without looking at them through red eyes. 

“Well,” Bill said at last, after they had sat in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, watching the finishing touches being put on the marquee, “I suppose we’d better go and see to this wedding business, hadn’t we, young Niffler?”

“I suppose so. William?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to get married?”

Bill looked at her strangely. “Of course. Bit bloody late if I didn’t, isn’t it?”

“No, I mean… When I was younger and you talked to me about what it was like, growing up, you said you never wanted to get married. You said that being free to be yourself was the most important thing in the world, and that being married was for people who didn’t like being themselves”

“Once again, your embarrassingly accurate memory for my airy teenage proclamations astounds me.Well, I suppose that when I said that, which as I recall was after a firewhiskey or two at your father’s unwitting expense, it was true. And now it’s not. When you’re young you always feel like you can only be truly yourself without anyone else around to mess it up. And when you get older, you realise that the opposite is true. Or becomes true. That you can only be yourself when you have other people to be yourself with. And when you get married, or fall in love or… whatever you do, you find that being with another person who you care about more than yourself, makes you want to be yourself, the true, good, right version of yourself, even more. I think.”

They dismounted the coal bunker, walked slowly across the lawn towards the marquee, the wedding, towards life and love and responsibility. Luna thought privately to herself that he was wrong - that she was not her true or right self when she was with other people she cared about and who, she thought, cared about her. But she was someone she liked, still, and that was important too. 

Bill held out a hand, as he had done so often when she was young and he had been the only one who took her seriously enough to talk to her, really talk to her about important things, and she took it, happy to have her oldest, first friend by her side even for a short time. 

“How holds the hearth?”

“She holds right well, young Niffler. Right well.”

### Blood

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

Panic and blood. That was Luna’s fleeting impression. She caught only glimpses as her father, ducking curses and occasionally riposting with a panicked hex of his own, dragged her haphazardly between fallen chairs and battling wizards. However, their progress was blocked by a large contingent of Death Eaters, holding down the entrance to the tent and attempting to hold back the panicked surge of fleeing guests. Xenophilius pushed her roughly behind an overturned table, following after firing one more curse in the general direction of the Death Eaters. 

Breathing hard, she dug into the folds of her dress for her own wand, having not had time to draw it before her father had pulled her - with a screech of panic she had not imagined him capable of - away from Ron and his strange cousin Barney and towards the exit. She had seen, very briefly under her father’s arm, Hermione execute a particularly impressive hop-kick over a chair and stun one of the masked Death Eaters before he - presumably - had even finished properly apparating. 

Wherever they were now, Luna hoped they were safe. She could see Mr Weasley brandishing his wand, back to back with Remus Lupin, facing down a pair of Death Eaters in either direction. The wedding didn’t seem to have descended into full-scale carnage, though, which was strange. Luna retreated into the comfortable and familiar realm of informed speculation, since it seemed easier than contemplating her legs, which had turned to jelly or something equally insubstantial, or the cut above her eyebrow which was steadily dripping blood onto her nose and down her cheek. She was aware of her father dabbing ineffectually at it with his sleeve until something stopped him, but her mind was many leagues distant by then.

“The Ministry has fallen”. It had been Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice - he had not been at the wedding, to her slight disappointment, for the tall wizard had a sartorial style she found very impressive and she had been looking forward to seeing what he would wear to the wedding. Presumably he had been at work, unavoidably detained. There must, she theorised, have been a lot more preparation put into this day than merely raising a tent and cooking a feast. Of course there would have been plans, threads and spindles of plots and schemes, enabling so many of the Order and the wizarding population to gather safely in one place for even a few hours. But here was their greatest weakness too. In a celebration of love and unity they had left themselves open to attack. 

The Ministry had fallen - but the Death Eaters were not killing at random, as she had heard and expected they would do. Instead they seemed to be rounding up the guests into groups, collecting their wands and interrogating them one by one. True, by the reactions of some of their victims, they were using Unforgivable Curses without fear - Dedalus Diggle, for one, appeared slack-jawed and blank of eye as he jabbered happily to a masked figure who was making notes on a scrap of parchment. Luna could see other guests, people she didn’t know, having a blue potion forced down their throats by one large man while another, skinnier and with a fox face, followed him around the group asking questions. 

Not all of these men wore masks, and some even had the green sashes of Ministry wizards. Some had no badge at all, it seemed, but they were all acting in concert, forcing information from the guests one way or another. She did not think anyone had been killed, or at least not on purpose - so what was happening? Kingsley had said the Ministry had fallen, but these people were acting as if they had the Ministry’s authority. Perhaps Voldemort and his followers were the Ministry now, which meant that she and her friends were in more danger than ever.

Luna was vaguely aware of being hauled to her feet and feeling her throat burn as strong hands forced her to drink. Fox-face was in front of her now, and his mouth was moving. She must not have answered correctly, or at all, because a blow from behind caught the back of her head and sent her reeling. Fox-face asked again. She must have said something, she supposed, because after he made a note on a scrap of parchment, he spat at her feet and moved away. 

Arms enveloped her and she recognised her father’s medallion pressing sharply into her cheek. Time was passing, Luna was sure, as she sat slumped in a semi-stable chair, her mind racing, examining and rejecting possibilites, quantifying. Then, with an enormous rush of noise as if air had suddenly rushed back into her lungs after a deep dive, the world came back to her. She realised that she should be fighting! The DA! What would Ginny think of her, catatonic and useless, sitting down and thinking while there was fighting work to be done. She stood suddenly, raised her wand, prepared to… but her hand was empty, and didn’t seem to be moving as she commanded it. In fact, Luna recognised, as she looked around, there didn’t seem to be much fighting to be done. There were only a few people in what was left of the tent, clearing up smouldering wreckage, righting and stacking tables and chairs. Her vision was blurring, she knew, and her wand-hand, wherever her wand was, was shaking, and her legs…

The next time Luna Lovegood opened her eyes, it was darkness. She was in bed, apparently, though she was sure it was not her bed. It didn’t smell right, for one thing, and she was wearing clothes, her dress, which she never… and with a gasp, she woke. With a noise that sounded like ‘guhsnarfle’, something warm and solid moved next to her. 

Something had red hair, soft and falling in ribbons across her chest as something turned over and made another ‘nurrrfff-gll’, draping its arm over her chest and snuggling down into the crook of her shoulder. 

“Oh”

“Mmmfluna. Feelibedda?”

“Um. Yes? I think.”

“Ogei. Leepitime. Loveyougf”

“Okay”

“…”

“Love you too.”


	4. The Train

### Papers, Please

September 1st, 1997

Ginny had never before traveled with such an escort. Two “Ministry” wizards accompanied her through the barrier to Platform 9 3/4, each with a hand clasped on her shoulders. On the other side, a long line of tables had been set up and crowds of students gathered around each one. From the noise and the mess, it seemed like each of their trunks was being torn apart and searched. The two thugs who had dragged her away from her parents and Charlie - not even giving them time to say goodbye - halted her in front of another wizard, a scrawny looking man with one eye half-closed. 

“Papers.”

“What?”

“Papers. Your letter of identification per Ministry Statute 5922.”

Apparently she was not the only one nonplussed by this sudden sprouting of officialdom on what was normally a chaotic and free-for-all occasion. Other students were rummaging through their bags and trunks, desperately searching for the documents which had arrived by owl - without any official explanation - in the weeks previous. The Weasleys’ letters had been given to her father, shortly before his department was ‘restructured’ and his job ‘outsourced’. Thankfully, Arthur Weasley was no stranger to Ministry bureaucracy, and had ensured that her letter - not the usual list of books that arrived from Hogwarts every mid-August, but a strange violet-framed parchment that proclaimed her to be of Pure-Blood Status Confirmed and Currently Enrolled At Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry - was tucked safely into the front pocket of her book bag. She fished it out, giving the scrawny wizard the benefit of her best unfazed/contemptuous look. He did not appear to notice.

“Weasley, Ginevra. PB, enrolled, fine fine fine. Over to the inspection area please.” 

Still unsure of what was going on, Ginny attempted to ask a question but was shoved aside by the two security wizards, dragging some other poor unfortunate - a Hufflepuff third-year she didn’t know - between them. Her trolley, already overburdened with trunk, cauldron and the enormous piles of books that each NEWT subject appeared to require, was rising to the occasion magnificently by refusing to move forward. Instead it swung wildly from side to side, the rear wheels apparently cemented to the concrete platform. 

Feeling her old, familiar friend - rage - rising inside her, Ginny returned once again to the orchard, a place that was becoming totemic in her mind. She walked once again between the trees, touching the trunks, smelling the scent of apple blossom, and as she did that rage became steel, a solid purpose. If she let her anger and fear master her here, she would probably not even make it to Hogwarts. There was too much at stake to risk it all over some stupid rules and inspections, and whatever else the new regime had dreamed up. 

She performed a brief unsticking charm on the trolley, which shot forward as though it had been greased. Narrowly avoiding a group of queuing students, she found what seemed to be the least-busy inspection desk and, after waiting impatiently for at least ten minutes, submitted to the incredible indignity of having her possessions examined. The dull-eyed witch manning the desk seemed to have no interest in her at all, and Ginny could gain no clue as to what, exactly, they were searching for. Perhaps this was simply a form of paranoia, like Filch and his ever-growing list of banned items. 

After having the contents of her trunk thoroughly turned over - Ginny was thankful she had at least remembered to pack her underwear in a separate bag - and the books inspected individually, the witch picked up a small purple hammer and gave the cauldron a sharp tap on the underside. Apparently satisfied with the deep booming noise it produced, she shoved it back at Ginny and announced that she was free to board the train. 

As Ginny made her way along the platform to her favoured carriage, she was more aware than ever how much had changed. Even though her fellow students had put up with the identification and inspection processes with no more bad grace than usual - they were students, after all, and quite used to jumping through apparently pointless hoops - there was definitely a subdued air to the train as she passed through it. Absent the usual fights, roared greetings, boisterous games of chess and hurl-the-flobberworm, the atmosphere was decidedly funereal.

As she shoved and bumped her way through the third carriage on the way to the fourth, where no doubt Luna would already be steadily outweirding all comers, she saw one of the reasons why. A battered Daily Prophet lay abandoned on the floor, evidently having been used to mop up something alarmingly green. The Weasleys had stopped their daily delivery shortly after the wedding, the Prophet having abandoned all pretense at impartiality and now actively supporting Thicknesse’s reign. In any case, the underground networks of the Order and her mother’s radio set provided all the useful information they really needed. The headline was stark enough to send shivers down the spine of any right-thinking Hogwarts student:

“NEW HEADMASTER FOR HOGWARTS. SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED.”

### This War Of Mine

Well, of course he was. That would about put the shiny tin lid on what was already forecasted to be a spectacularly shitty school year. With Snape as headmaster, Voldemort running the Ministry and no sign or word from Harry since he, Ron and Hermione had disappeared after the wedding, it would be surprising if anybody she cared about even made it to Christmas. Helplessness was worse than fear, Ginny realised. Fear was specific - I am afraid of  this thing that is trying to kill me \-  but helplessness was general, impersonal, tidal. It encroached and insinuated until it was up to your neck and you were about to drown.

As she passed through the train, looking in vain for Luna, Neville, Dean, anybody she knew well enough to sit with, a now-familiar feeling of creeping dread began to prickle across her shoulders. The train was half empty. It was very nearly eleven and the engine was steaming nicely. At last, reasoning that Luna and the others would find her eventually, she found the first empty compartment and plonked herself down by the window, looking out at the platform. The queues at the inspection desks were thinning, she could see, with some students running - as far as was possible with their trunks in tow - to the train. She could also see, off behind the wizard who had checked her ‘papers’, a large knot of students sitting on their trunks and looking despondent. They were surrounded by more of the security wizards that had escorted her through the barrier. 

What was going on? Why weren’t they being allowed on the train? The answer came, eventually, through one of her least favourite people on the face of the earth. Pansy Parkinson and some of her cronies, on the way to their favoured -last carriage spot, apparently saw her sitting alone as too good a target to resist. The door to her compartment slammed open while Ginny was still staring out of the window, and it took her a second to realise she had drawn her wand.

“Going to curse me, Weasley?” leered Pansy. “I’d be careful, if I were you. Some of us have powerful friends… and some of us have no friends at all. Where’s your man, Weasley? Where’s your little mudblood friends?”

Ginny kept her wand leveled right at the Slytherin queen bee. This was only a skirmish, the kind she had been expecting, but if things got really unpleasant she would not be caught out. 

“Hello Parkinson. I’m surprised you’re deigning to join us mere mortals. Why aren’t you flying around with Voldemort,” Ginny noted with a flash of pleasure the brief look of horror that crossed Pansy’s face, while one of the brainless drones she dragged everywhere with her gasped, “saving the noble pure-blood race from these dangerous, scawwwwy muggles!”

As if to make up for her moment of weakness, Pansy Parkinson spat back at her “Fucking blood traitor! Someone’s got to keep muggle-loving scum like you in line, Weasley. Don’t worry, you’ll get what you deserve - you may have been pure-blood enough to get on the train but we’ll make sure you get sent home like your muggle mates, one way or another!”

Her drones screeched with laughter, and Pansy had something like triumph on her face as she continued. “Wonder what it’s going to be like for you blood traitors and muggle-lovers when you finally realise how things are now. When you get to school and all your precious muggles have been purged like they should have been years ago!”

Purged? Ginny’s mind raced… was this what the students rounded up on the platform were doing there? She knew the Ministry had been coming down hard on Muggle-borns - just last week, some disgusting leaflet had arrived through their door, claiming muggle-borns posed ‘a danger to peaceful pure-blood society’. Her mother had shot it into the air on a column of flame, nearly roasting the owl that had delivered it, as she apparently did not believe simply throwing it on the fire was enough. Ginny could not resist a quick glance back at the muggle-born students. 

Pansy crowed with delight. “You see what happens when you try and make magic ‘inclusive’ and ‘equal’, Weasley? Scum like Dumbledore have kept  real pure-bloods down for years! This is what magic  should be! Actually, it’s about ethics in wizard-muggle relations - they’ve been leeching off us for years!” her voice was getting higher and more frantic as she jabbed her finger at Ginny, “You’ll see what a wizarding world run by  real wizards is like. Fucking little blood-traitor bitch!”

Forcing herself to remain calm, to turn fire to steel, Ginny lowered her wand, though she kept it firmly pointed towards the Slytherins. “And in this wonderful world of purity and race-hatred, you’ll be what? Draco’s little housewife, keeping his bed warm while he goes out hunting muggles? Or is it an equal-opportunity genocide you’re planning? Everybody with the same opportunity to oppress and slaughter muggles?” The words kept tumbling out, though she had meant to simply insult Parkinson and slam the door closed. “What kind of  fucking moron signs up for the dark side just because her precious boyfriend tells her to?”

Pansy did not seem taken aback by these slanders on her relationship with Draco, a subject that normally caused her to descend into wordless fury. “Sure you want to go there, Weasley? I mean, everyone knows your record isn’t exactly  stellar ! A squib, a muggle, and Undesirable Number One! I’d be very careful what you say, blood-traitor, unless you want the whole school knowing that!”

Well, that was that, Ginny supposed. She had got what she deserved for bringing men into it. Not a mistake she would make again.

“You’re right, Parkinson,” she said, breathing heavily. “Much as it pains me to say it. This isn’t about men, this is about us. In fact,” Ginny raised her wand again, “this is about right and wrong. One of us is right, one of us is wrong. And one of us will have painful!” a flick of her wand, and Pansy gasped, “bright!” another wrenching screech as, doubled over, she tried to draw her wand, “green!” Ginny cast the curse again and again, thankful she had spent so long practicing on the gnomes in the Burrow’s garden, “boils all over her pathetic pure-blood body for weeks!” With one last flourish, Ginny knocked Pansy’s wand out of her hand as the Slytherin fought to cast a counter-curse. For good measure, she waved her wand and the compartment door slammed shut on Pansy’s leg, eliciting another howl of outrage. The drones pulled Pansy away as she picked up her wand and tried to wrestle the compartment door open again, but Ginny sealed it firmly and slumped back on her seat, breathing hard.

That had not gone as intended. Of course, there was the satisfaction of knowing that Pansy Parkinson would be wincing with every movement for the next three weeks, but she had not wanted to get into a fight this early. Keep your head down, her father had said. Keep your head down, keep out of sight and don’t draw attention to yourself. What had just happened was the opposite of circumspect, and would likely cause far more problems than it had temporarily solved. 

A rattle at the door distracted her. Had the Slytherins regrouped and come back for another go? It turned out to be Neville Longbottom, looking a little uncertainly at the door as if he wasn’t sure if they were always like this and he had just forgotten. She unstuck the door and he bustled in, followed - blessedly - by Luna. 

“Where were you two?” Ginny asked by way of greeting. “I had to face down the queen bitch and her gang by myself!” Neville coloured and muttered something about being held up as he hoisted his trunk up to the luggage rack. Luna squeezed past him and flumped breezily down opposite her.

“Sorry I’m late. I got arrested, I think.”

### Invisible Ink

Luna had arrived at King’s Cross, as usual, alone. Her father did not normally accompany her to London, not since her first year, but she was used to that. He insisted it was to encourage her independent spirit but the truth, as far as she was concerned at least, was that the school holidays were exactly long enough for them to grow thoroughly bored of each other’s company. The last couple of years had at least afforded her the opportunity to spend some of that time over the hill with the Weasleys, which she had seized to both her and Xeno’s delight.

This time he had come as far as Paddington with her, nervously glancing around and with one hand inside his robes - clutching his wand, no doubt - the entire time. He had tried, she thought, not to alarm her. It was sweet, but Xeno Lovegood had long ago lost any of that mysterious and wonderful quality that daughters see in their fathers alone. Luna found she could predict his actions and reactions almost exactly, and while he was trying his best to appear confident and protective for her sake, she knew that if anything were to happen it would be her, not him, who would have to defend them.

Still, that didn’t seem to be necessary today. Attacks on muggles had been occurring, more and more frequently over the past few months, but since the giant attacks in Somerset the previous year, there had not been any major assaults in her part of the country. Possibly because of the larger concentration of wizards there, she thought. In any case, as they had boarded the London train at a tiny half-platform station a few miles walk from Ottery St. Catchpole - it was not scheduled to stop there, but the muggle conductor had mysteriously decided to anyway - she had not been feeling particularly anxious. Returning to school was a source of great joy to her these days. 

Luna and her father had parted ways outside the Leaky Cauldron, he to some unspecified ‘business’ with his publishers and she to Kings Cross. She knew this area of London reasonably well, and thankfully it was only a few streets away. Dragging her trunk on its neat little folding trolley - another useful device she had picked up in Sweden - she set off. 

The streets seemed busier around the station than she was used to. Wizards were easy to spot among muggles, never having quite got the grasp of muggle fashion, but there were more than usual waiting, anxiously, outside the main entrance. There were even students there - no-one she recognised. Leaving for Hogwarts was usually a happy occasion, even in the current climate, but perhaps the new rules were causing their distress. Hogwarts attendance had been made mandatory, she knew, and Severus Snape was going to be the new Headmaster. Perhaps that was why everyone looked so serious.

Luna’s sense of unease deepened as she entered the station and made her way towards the large main stairway. When they had rebuilt the station a few years ago, the muggles had put some sort of barrier across the center of the station, only allowing those who had bought a ticket to go down to the platforms. The chaos caused by this had nearly caused the Hogwarts Express to depart late for the first time in one hundred and fifty years. After that incident, it had become almost routine that the barrier would be mysteriously out-of-operation on certain days, such as September 1st. 

Several times as she made her way down the length of the platforms, passing muggles trying to balance their bags, purses and urgently purchased ‘Cornish pasties’ - whatever those were - Luna thought she caught a glimpse of the green sashes of Ministry wizards. Certainly there were wizards among the crowd, ones who did not seem to be bringing their children to Platform 9 3/4. Instead they were watching all who passed, and they did not look friendly.

Luna approached the barrier, looking around for people she recognised. She saw Terry Boot disappear through the plain brick wall accompanied by two men who, she thought, definitely were not related to him. A few moments later they reappeared and, grabbing the next waiting student - a portly third-year Hufflepuff whose name, she seemed to recall, was Thursby - pulling him away from his mother, to whom he had been in the middle of explaining that he really didn’t need her to go with him through the barrier, and practically dragging him away. 

This was all very wrong, clearly. The wizards were wearing Ministry sashes, openly enough, but when Thursby’s father - an equally portly man with a loose mop of ginger hair unconvincingly topped by a bowler hat - attempted to remonstrate with them as they reappeared, one of them drew his wand. Waving it under Mr Thursby’s nose and saying something - Luna couldn’t hear what but it was evident enough that it was threatening, as the man turned white and scuttled away, pulling his wife with him. Too late, Luna realised, she was next.

The two security wizards grabbed her by the shoulders. “It’s okay, thank you,” Luna tried to say as she was practically pulled off her feet, ‘I really don’t need any help, I…”

The microsecond cold-shower feeling of the barrier didn’t help. The shiver that passed through Luna turned, without any apparent intervention from her brain, into a full body shudder as the horrified feeling of those hands gripping her shoulders became full revulsion. She tried to shake them off, twisting lizard-like and voicing some wordless exclamation of her fury. It was useless - all she achieved was to wrench her trunk off its wheeled trolley and smash it into the brick wall behind her. One of the security wizards grunted and shoved her sprawling forward. 

“Stupid bloody… get up!”

One of them grabbed the back of Luna’s robes and pulled her upright, apparently without effort. She realised that, unconsciously, she had drawn her wand from inside her sleeve. This evidently amused the big man, as he tore it from her grasp and plonked her down in front of another wizard wearing a Ministry sash.

“Another fighter. Bloody kids don’t know how lucky they are.”

Her trunk was dumped unceremoniously at her feet. The wizard with the parchment looked down his nose at her - quite a feat, as they were nearly matched in height - as he took possession of her wand. Luna, winded and weak as she felt, was experiencing something that she had not felt for a long time - a hot, liquid anger that flowed down her spine, setting every nerve tingling. Her usually cool and analytical brain was roaring abuse and fearful cries in equal measure.

Stifling, with great effort, the urge to ram her fists into this wizard’s nose, to bite and kick and punch him until… she was not sure what… Luna managed to tune herself back to reality. The horror and indignity of being manhandled in that way was bad enough, but now this officious-looking wizard had her wand and was demanding… “what?”

“Papers, please.”

Papers. He couldn’t mean extra parchment, he had that, and seemed to be expecting something important from her.

“Papers. What kind of papers?”

“Your letter of identification per Ministry Statute 5922.” At her blank look, the wizard gave a sigh, which fueled the urge to punch him in the nose even stronger. “Your letter from the Ministry of Magic confirming your Pure-blood status and enrollment at Hogwarts?”

“I don’t know what that is,” Luna said, her mind racing. Her father had not mentioned anything about this, nor had it been in the Daily Prophet as far as she knew - she still read the paper, her father getting it delivered ‘to know what the enemy is saying’ - and, in the back of her mind, a small voice began to mumble panicked thoughts.

The wizard made another grumbling noise and spoke again, slowly as if to a dimwitted child, “You will have got a letter by owl in the last month, and it will have said you were pure-blood or half-blood or muggle-born. It might have been purple, or blue, or red. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes, alright, you don’t have to talk to me like I’m five!” Luna snapped, “I didn’t get any letter. Why do I need it?”

The wizard coloured. “Well, you need it to get on the train, young lady, and you’ll need to prove your pure-blood status if you don’t want to be arrested on a charge of Fraudulent Impersonation of Wizardkind, not to mention Theft of Magical Abilities and Conspiracy to Receive Magical Goods and Services Without Proper Authorisation!”

If he had been hoping to bamboozle her with legalese, she thought, he was in for a surprise. “That’s utter nonsense,” Luna said coldly. “You can’t steal magical abilities from wizards - it’s been proven before the International Confederation of Wizards that magical ability is innate and cannot be transferred from one wizard to another, let alone from wizards to muggles. Also, I’m a witch and I have a wand, which I would like back please!”

“Unless you can prove that this wand is yours by right, I am authorised by the Muggle-born Registration Committee to confiscate it and detain you, pending further investigation. If you don’t have your Ministry-endorsed letter confirming your pure-blood status, I’m afraid you will have to wait in the holding area!” He gestured over his shoulder, and Luna saw a large group of students surrounded by a glowing green line and several Ministry wizards, wands drawn. 

“I thought not. Take her away!” This to someone behind her.

“No! Thank you. I can walk.” She said furiously as another security witch reached for her shoulder. Grabbing her trunk, she stalked forward, taking careful note as the officious wizard passed her wand to her new escort. Forcing herself to stay calm and think, she walked slowly towards the “holding area”. The green haze shimmered in the air, and she knew if she went through it she would likely not be allowed back. As if she had read her mind, before Luna could find a way to stop or delay, her escort gave her a shove and she staggered forward through the barrier. 

From the inside it was solid green. The security wizard who had followed her through took up position between two others, forming a circle around the inside of the barrier. She could not see the rest of the station or the train, which was surely going to leave soon. It was only ten minutes to eleven. At the edge of her disgust and anger, she knew, a feeling of hopelessness was waiting to devour her. When the beautiful bright red train blew its whistle and departed, she needed to be on it. Or…she did not know what. But clearly it wasn’t going to be something as simple as an interview and then being sent home.

“Luna!” She whirled around. She had barely glanced at the other students aimlessly milling around, but here was a face both familiar and shocking. “Neville! What are you doing here?” she asked, “You’re pure-blood, aren’t you?”

“Yes! They wouldn’t believe I just forgot my letter!” Neville said, anguished. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere for it! My gran will be  furious !” He gestured to his trunk, which lay open a few feet away and thoroughly disordered. 

“I don’t understand about the letters,” Luna said as she followed him over, dragging her own trunk next to his. “I never got one, I’m sure of it. My father would have said something!” Even as she said it, she wondered. Would Xeno, who had based his whole career on a thorough mistrust of Ministry bureaucracy, have recognised the importance of the letter or simply dismissed it as another attempt to constrain and control wizardkind? 

“My gran said she though it was all nonsense but that I’d better keep it anyway. And some other stuff about the ‘name of Longbottom’ being recognised, but I don’t really… anyway,” Neville went on, colouring slightly, “I swear I put it in here! Somewhere…”

Neville’s voice trailed off as Luna, who had been helping him search, held up a folded piece of paper, trying hard to balance her expression somewhere between sympathetic and conciliatory. “Bookmark?”

“Oh… I was reading Winogrand’s  Wonderous Water Plants over breakfast this morning…”

“Okay. Well, there you go,” Luna said, heavily. If you show them the letter I’m sure they’ll let you through,” though in fact she was not certain of that at all.

“Thank you, Luna!” Neville gasped, holding on to the letter with both hands, “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t… wait a minute! What are you doing here? You’re pure-blood too!”

“No letter, Neville. I said that, remember? I can’t prove I’m pure blood or enrolled at Hogwarts or any of that stuff.”

“Oh.” Neville looked crestfallen. “Couldn’t you, I don’t know… well, why don’t you use mine? I can always get another one!” 

Luna could have hugged him for that. “I don’t think that’s how it works, Neville. Thank you for…”

Her mind finally recovered from the shock of the morning’s events, a sudden thought struck her.

“Neville, can I see your letter…and your wand? They took mine.”

“What? Why?”

Luna looked slightly embarrassed. “I might have drawn it on them”

“Oh. Gosh…erm.” said Neville, unsure, but handed them over anyway.

“Thanks… I wonder if…” Luna trailed off as she focused on the letter. It seemed to be normal parchment, no particular spells or charms, but she would have to check more carefully. If she got it wrong she could be dooming both herself and Neville.

Shifting position on her trunk so that her back was to the nearest Ministry wizard, she took Neville’s wand - cherrywood and unicorn hair, much longer than her own maple and dittany-stalk, though it did not feel unfamiliar - and gently levitated the parchment flat in the air in front of her. Passing the wand over and under it a few times, she came to detect a slight tremor - there was some minor enchantment, for certain. Probably, Luna reasoned, the letters had been charmed to ensure they could not be copied. Since that was exactly what she had in mind, she would have to find another way around it. The answer came to her in a flash.

“Neville, can you open my trunk? I need one of my books…”

Looking thoroughly uncomfortable at the thought of rummaging through a girl’s trunk, Neville nonetheless complied. “Which, er, one?”

“Mmm? Er, Spangle,  Charms of Defence and Deterrence . Should have a bright orange cover.”

“This one?” Neville turned it up after some moments.

“Yes,” Luna said thoughtfully. “That’s the one. Can you find the first proper page, please, the one that has the publisher’s information on it?”

“Got it”

“Good. Can you rip it out, please?”

Neville looked shocked. Luna paused in her examination of the letter. “Quickly please Neville, we don’t have much time. It’s only a book, I just need that page. Please!”

Closing his eyes as if in pain, Neville carefully tore the page from the book and passed it to Luna. “Why do you need it? What’s special about this book?” 

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. I’ve just read it already. But these pages usually have an enchantment…” She levitated the page next to the letter and quickly checked it for spells. Sure enough, a small tremor in Neville’s wand told her it had been enchanted.

“They charm the publisher pages so no-one can make a copy of the book without their permission,” Luna explained, aware that Neville was watching her in total confusion. “Which works fine, if all you want to do is copy the book. No-one in their right mind would ever want to copy just the publisher’s page, after all. Except…”

She touched the page with one finger, gently moving it underneath the floating letter and pressing the two together. Tapping the letter on each corner with Neville’s wand, she muttered “ Mimeomorus gestetnius ”. The parchments glowed as if fusing together at the edges, and began to rotate rapidly. After a moment they sprang apart. Neville’s letter floated to earth apparently unchanged, but the publisher’s page flopped into Luna’s lap, its ink flowing together, running and pooling. 

“Quick, Neville, do you have some violet ink?” she asked, hurriedly. That must be it, she thought. Neville obliged, still mystified but grateful to have his letter returned. She splashed a few drops of the bright ink onto the paper and it flowed together with the black. For a moment, Luna wasn’t sure if it had worked, but at last the ink resolved into a clear copy of Neville’s letter. Before the ink could dry, she dragged the tip of Neville’s wand through his name on the facsimile and it changed to hers.

“Oh my…,” Neville whispered, “You are amazing!”

Luna blushed. “I’m just… okay at stuff. Sometimes. Come on!”

They scrambled upright and approached the nearest guard, the one with Luna’s wand. 

“Excuse me!” Luna began brightly, “We couldn’t find our letters! But then we found them. So, er… here!” She thrust her letter, thankful that the ink had dried so quickly, at the Ministry witch. She didn’t look like the world’s brightest thinker, Luna thought, but she had at least enough sense to examine hers and Neville’s letters carefully, even going so far as to poke them a few times with her own wand. At last, the witch appeared satisfied - or at least confused enough to pass responsibility up the line. 

“Wait here,” she muttered, and stepped backwards through the green wall.

Agonizing moments passed, Luna and Neville not even daring to look at one another. Then, just as the train blew a loud whistle somewhere in the far distance, the gaunt-looking wizard who had dismissed her earlier stepped through the barriers.

“Longbottom, Neville. Pure-blood status confirmed, you’re free to go.” 

“What about Luna?” Neville asked, uncertainly.

“Hm. Lovegood, Luna? Pure-blood status, enrolled at Hogwarts, apparently found the letter she didn’t know she had?”

“Yes. My father put it in my bag. He forgot to tell me”

“A likely story. In any case, there seems to be nothing wrong with it,” said the wizard, begrudgingly. “You may go.”

Luna held out a hand. “My wand?”

The wizard sighed and turned to the security witch who hovered nearby, apparently unsure how to process this new information. “Analept, do you have Miss Lovegood’s wand?” Begrudgingly, the witch fished Luna’s wand out of her pocket and handed it over. It did not seem to have been tampered with, but Luna gave it a wave and a small cloud of deep-blue sparks flew into the air, coming to land at the wizard’s feet. He jumped slightly and cleared his throat.

“Get a move on, please, the train is waiting to depart.”

Luna turned to look at her fellow students, sitting miserably on their trunks. She did not lower her wand.

“What’s going to happen to them?”

“That’s at the discretion of the Muggle-born Registration Committee, and none of your business. You are free to go, unless you’d rather stay here?” the wizard snarled.

“Come on, Luna!” Neville muttered, pulling at her arm. “There’s nothing we can do at the moment. We’ve got to go!”

The Hogwarts Express blew its whistle again, a piercing sound that echoed throughout the platform. Luna shook her head and followed, unhappily. Levitating their trunks, she and Neville ran at full tilt towards the train.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These scenes were pretty rough-written and mostly just there so I can get moving towards later chapters where much more happens. However, if anyone's interested in beta-reading this as I go along I have some later material up for review. Let me know in comments, thanks!


	5. The New Order

### Caesar Shift

September 1st, 1997

After enduring yet another search of their trunks in the castle’s Entrance Hall - this time by Filch and several animated suits of armour, overseen by a witch and wizard Ginny vaguely recognised - they were finally allowed to shuffle into the Great Hall. The usual house drapes were present, the enchanted ceiling a patchwork of stars and cirrus clouds, the customary floating candles bobbed gently overhead presenting a fire hazard to all - everything was as normal, apart from the gaping, achingly painful wound that scarred and distorted the whole image. Severus Snape sat at the head of the teacher’s table, lounging behind the lectern from which Dumbledore had always delivered his commencement speech. 

She was not the only one who faltered in their steps as they took in the scene. By her side, Luna made a small gasp and Neville, elegant as ever, stumbled and nearly tripped over his own feet. By contrast, some of the Slytherins let out excited whoops and cheers when they saw their Head of House - former, Ginny supposed, wondering vaguely who the new head of Slytherin would be - waiting there to welcome them. Snape acknowledged the Slytherins’ rapture with a calculated eyebrow, and waved them to their seats. 

As the hall gradually filled - more slowly than usual, due to Filch’s little charade no doubt - Ginny and Neville compared notes on who was missing. Luna, at the Ravenclaw table with Padma Patil, seemed to be doing the same. Many of the Gryffindor seventh years were absent, quite apart from Harry, Ron and Hermione. When Seamus Finnegan came ambling along and sat opposite them, he confirmed what she had suspected on the train.

“Dean’s off, wasn’t going to come anywhere near the place. I was raging when he sent the owl but I suppose it’s all for the best, if they were rounding up the muggle-borns like that.”

“Did he tell you where he was going?” Ginny asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. Seamus was Dean’s best friend and had of course known about the finer details of their acrimonious split, but he didn’t need to know any more than that. 

“Off into the wild somewhere, no doubt” Seamus said, smiling tightly. There was a brittleness to his voice, and Ginny was sure he was not looking forward to the prospect of a year without his best friend. “Still,” he continued, “reckon he might have done the sensible thing, looking at the state of this lot.”

Ginny turned her attention to the teacher’s table. Snape was standing now, gripping the lectern with both hands. The bronze phoenix still remained, though somewhat diminished. She wondered why she had never noticed the carved snake wound around the base of the lectern. As the last few students filed into the hall, she turned her attention to Snape himself.

“Welcome, Hogwarts students.” His cold voice sounded anything but welcoming as it echoed through the suddenly silent hall. “It will not have escaped your notice that there have been some changes to the school this year. For one, I am proud to take up the mantle of Headmaster after,” and a small sneer curled the corners of his lips, “the  tragic loss of Professor Dumbledore. In his memory we shall all, I am sure, strive to make Hogwarts a place where all students of good standing will be welcomed, educated and trained.”

“Good standing meaning pure blood, I suppose” Ginny muttered under her breath. Neville nudged her and pointed towards Professor McGonagall, who sat not in her usual place on the right of the Headmaster’s chair, but several places down next to Professors Flitwick and Vector. The old witch’s face was a picture of composed calm, but her eyes were fixed on the side of Snape’s head and, Ginny though, if looks could kill, Snape wouldn’t stand a chance. The new Headmaster continued, apparently unaware that by rights his hair ought to be spontaneously combusting.

“To aid us all in fulfilling the Ministry’s new directives for the education of our valued youth, we have some new teachers this year. Professor Alecto Carrow” - a sour-faced witch sitting to Snape’s right stood briefly and grimaced - “will be taking over the post of Muggle Studies professor after the sudden resignation of Professor Burbage last year.” The new professor gave a smirk that was entirely without humour, and glanced to the man on the other side of Snape, who smiled back at her. “Her brother, Professor Amycus Carrow, will be teaching Dark Arts. I am sure you will all learn much from them.”

It was only after Snape had said their names that Ginny recognised the pair, who had been directing Filch’s search-and-seizure operation in the Entrance Hall. The last time she had seen them, she realised, was in the Department of Mysteries. The growing look of horror on Neville’s face told her he had reached the same conclusion. Seamus, meanwhile, was more concerned with Snape’s speech. Judging by the mounting sussurruss around the Hall, he was not the only one. “Dark Arts, is it? Guess they’ve given up on the ‘Defence’ part then. I didn’t think they’d be so open about it…”

“Those two, Seamus - they’re Death Eaters!” Ginny whispered.

“I know! Their pictures were in all the bloody papers last year, weren’t they? Me mam kept askin’ me if I’d seen them!”

Snape had finished introducing the new Astrology teacher - Professor Sinistra having returned to Ougadogou, apparently in something of a hurry - and seemed to be having a problem continuing. After checking the lectern several times - presumably his notes, Ginny thought, recalling with some satisfaction that Dumbledore had never once used notes for a speech - Snape gave a small cough and looked sharply around at the students, as though daring them to mention it. “We also welcome… from Germany, er… Professor… Professor Crowley, who will be leading some… ah, some extra credit classes for N.E.W.T. students.”

At the far end of the teacher’s table, a young man in scruffy green robes whispered something to Hagrid and stood up. Ginny had not seen him sitting there, but this wasn’t entirely surprising given that he was partially hidden behind the gamekeeper’s considerable bulk. The man - he looked too young to be a teacher, surely - executed a deep, deeply Teutonic bow and sat back down. Hagrid roared with laughter at something - she did not know what, because no-one had said anything - and flung his tankard to the floor. Ginny giggled - of course Hagrid would be the one to break the silence.

Snape had finished introducing the new Astrology teacher who would be replacing Professor Sinistra - Ginny couldn’t remember what had happened to her, though perhaps she had gone back to her native Burkina Faso to escape the coming war. It was a shame, she thought, as she had always like the tall, beautiful witch and her midnight classes, feeling very much at peace among the stars and planets. 

Neville looked as if he was about to ask her something, and then seemed to forget it. This was not uncommon with Neville though, so she did not ask what was on his mind. Snape was finishing his remarks and her stomach was rumbling.

“Lastly it must fall to me to issue a warning to you all. In these dangerous days, the safety of wizardkind from the muggle threat is paramount, and no agitation or subversion will be tolerated. The Ministry of Magic is very clear on these matters and Hogwarts will not tolerate any deviation from government strictures. Rest assured that everything is being done to find and catch those who would threaten our safety, and to stamp out the seeds of disruption and dissent wherever they are found. To this end, the Ministry of Magic has ruled that Educational Decree Number 24 will be reinstated and all student organisations are hereby suspended!” Snape had to raise his voice over the ensuing outrage. “Furthermore, any student who participates in or is suspected of belonging to a subversive organisation, or to be aiding the enemies of wizarding purity, will be summarily punished and may be expelled from the school! That is all!”

Snape sat, a rare flush of colour on his face. The man to his left - Carrow, the new Dark Arts professor - muttered something and Snape snapped back, coldly. This went un-noticed by most, though, as the long-awaited feast had appeared on their plates and everyone had something to complain about with their mouths full.

  


### Enigma

“Ginny, do you think I’m mad?”

Luna had accosted her in the Entrance Hall after leaving the feast. The Ravenclaw tower was some way on the other side of the castle and most of her housemates had gone directly there after several Slytherin prefects - Ginny had noted with some satisfaction that Pansy Parkinson was not among them - had made loud statements about the punishments for students being caught out of bed.

As they made their way up the main staircase in a throng of Gryffindors, Ginny found herself temporarily stuck for an honest answer. Luna was one of her dearest friends, yet her unique outlook on life could definitely cause her to be classified as…

“I don’t think so, no,” she said, trying to tread carefully, “I mean, I think you’re very…”

“Don’t tell me I’m special, or unique or any of that,” Luna interjected brightly, “I know all of that, and what people usually mean by it.”

“Luna, I…Sorry, I didn’t mean to say…” Ginny was floundering. 

“I know I’m different, that’s not what I mean. Thinking and acting the way that makes most sense to yourself isn’t madness, anyway. What I mean is, do you think I’m mad for seeing and hearing something nobody else seems to have seen or heard?”

They had reached the landing where the paths to their respective Houses diverged. Ginny stared at her friend, who did not meet her eyes. She didn’t know what Luna was talking about - it couldn’t be about the thestrals, surely? - but something that had been itching at the back of her mind all through the feast suddenly flared up again. It was like trying to grasp the smoke from a blown-out candle.

“What are you talking about, Luna?”

Luna fixed her with an unusually serious gaze. “During the feast. How many new professors did Snape introduce?”

“What? What does that have to do with…?” Ginny trailed off as she saw Luna’s expression. Her friend looked fiercer than she had ever seen before. During the battle at the Department of Mysteries, she had seen Luna casting hexes with an look of benign calm on her face, positively meditative, as if she had been practicing in class. Now she stood poised, glaring, ready to fight.

“Three. I think. Er, the two Death Eaters, the Carrows, and that new Astronomy teacher, whatsisname. Three new teachers. Why?”

Luna’s expression softened - not in relief, but something more like disappointment. “That’s what I thought.” She turned and began to walk away towards her own common room. Ginny caught her by the arm before she had gone three steps.

“Hey!”

“It doesn’t matter, Ginny. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Luna said in her usual bright and distracted fashion. Ginny was having none of it.

“The Luna Lovegood I know -  my Luna - doesn’t say anything that ‘doesn’t matter’” she said fiercely. “Tell me what’s on your mind or I’ll hex your ears purple!”

Luna looked briefly shocked, let out a shriek of laughter, then suddenly looked thoughtful. “I think I’d look quite good with purple ears.”

“Luna!”

“There were four! Snape introduced four professors - the Carrows, Professor Kepler and another one!”

Ginny was about to ask again what her friend was talking about, but it suddenly occurred to her that, of course, Luna was right. Snape had said something about extra classes for N.E.W.T. students, and a young man in green had stood up and bowed. And then she had forgotten, somehow, all about it.

“There was…” she began. Luna finished her thought for her, “a man sitting next to Hagrid, and he’s supposed to be teaching extra credit classes, but when I tried to ask Padma and the others they didn’t even remember Snape saying anything about him! I even pointed him out!”

“And no-one could see him? What on earth… I  knew there was something I couldn’t remember!” Ginny said furiously. It felt curiously like a personal insult, even though something had happened to pull the wool over all of their eyes. Except Luna’s, somehow.

“No you didn’t,” Luna said, “Nobody did. That’s what’s so unusual about it. Even when someone’s memories are obliviated there’s telltale signs - their irises get a little ragged around the edges, actually - but nobody could memory-wipe the whole school without someone noticing, surely? And even Snape seemed to have trouble remembering who he was introducing. Did you see his face?”

Ginny remembered seeing the hook-nosed object of her hatred showing a rare moment of public uncertainty.

“He had to keep looking at something in his hand… and then Hagrid knocked his beer over, and all I remembered was that Snape had said something about Professor Sinistra retiring.”

“Yes!” Luna said excitedly, “and I bet if you ask Neville and the others, they won’t remember there was anyone there at all!”

That was almost certainly true. It looked like they were the only two in the school who knew about the strange young man. As they parted, Ginny agreeing to write down a description of the man in case she somehow forgot again, Luna voiced something that was beginning to bother her as well.

“I wonder who he really is? And…do you think he’s on our side, or theirs?”

### Transposition

September 5th, 1997

It wasn’t until a few days later, in their second transfiguration class, that the first of Luna’s questions was answered. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws were paired in McGonagall’s classes, so Ginny and Luna were sitting together in their accustomed place in the back of the class. The first few classes of the year were meant to ease them back into academic life before the real grind of N.E.W.T.s began, so after a quick recap of the principles of genus-specific transmutation, they had their horn-shelled tortoises turned into a matching pair of deep jade statuettes in short order. 

Ginny was scribbling furiously on a scrap of parchment. Luna didn’t imagine the red-haired witch had ever realised, but she was prone to poking her tongue out a little when she was concentrating hard. Luna could see the very tip, eased between her lips, and found her mind wandering to interesting places. This was not unusual, but the balmy glow of the late summer sun and the unsettled feeling that had surrounded her since returning to the castle – since the wedding, in truth – drove her thoughts to tread a path that had lain unused for a time. The natural hewn-rock red of Ginny’s hair was always transmogrified to fine strands of shimmering ruby in a certain kind of afternoon sunlight. The place where her neck curved, met her jaw, just below her ear, was marked with the faintest touch of down. Her eyes, what Luna could see of them, were like to burn a hole in the parchment, and Luna was mesmerised. Hopeless, she thought.

A shadow loomed over the pair of them. The sunlight through the deep mullioned glass was dimmed, and the spell was broken. 

‘Miss Lovegood, Miss Weasley. I am to assume, by your conspicuous lack of activity,’ – too late, Luna realised, her wand was revolving lazily in the air above the deep green former tortoise, guided by her aimless finger – ‘that you consider yourselves well ahead of the requirements for today’s class.’

Minerva McGonagall was far from amused. There was no special dispensation, no secret club of we’ve-fought-the-Dark-Lord-let’s-all-wear-an-interesting-tie witches and wizards who passed each other with a nod and a wink. Not here, anyway, under the rule of Snape and the Carrows. It had been made clear at the feast that Hogwarts was occupied territory, and that they were under the yoke. Minerva McGonagall was the nearest they had to a figurehead, with Dumbledore gone and Harry who-knew-where, and she had responded to this by becoming, in public at least, the very embodiment of her reputation.

‘Such brazen confidence in your own abilities, considering the somewhat shabby state of your work. Miss Lovegood, your tortoise is suffering from a severe case of cracked shell – and indeed cracked everything else – and Miss Weasley, yours is apparently as bored as you are. It appears to tapping its claws on the desk!’

Ginny had the good grace to look suitably shamefaced. Luna tried to imitate her, although it did not come easily. 

‘Both of you will stay behind after class, and we will have  words .’ McGonagall swept away, studiously ignoring the grins of her other students, who had of course been enjoying the show. It didn’t matter; the illusion was complete. Ginny and Luna shared the slightest of significant glances. If  that wasn’t code, nothing was. 

The rest of the hour passed in relative quiet, with the exception of Terry Boot shattering his pale and sickly-looking tortoise into a thousand pieces while gesturing expansively with his wand. This earned him a stern rebuke and a command performance of the famed McGonagall Eyebrow. When the chimes of the school bell rang – somewhat more subdued this year, it seemed to Luna, in keeping with the atmosphere in the castle – the rest of the class shuffled off to Dark Arts (the dropping of ‘Defence against’ that Seamus had pointed out had not received any official explanation) and the two girls hung back, doing their best to look apprehensive and guilty. 

When the classroom door had at last crashed shut behind a still-mortified Boot, they turned and almost ran up to McGonagall’s desk, where the spry witch was vanishing the mortal remains of the unfortunate reptile. Stowing her wand up her sleeve, she sank heavily into her chair and sighed.

‘Nothing to be done, unless you like three dimensional jigsaws. It wasn’t even a particularly nice statue. Ah well.’

Turning to the two waiting witches, she fixed them with a stony glare. ‘The pair of you need to be more careful. You cannot give these people an inch, not a single inch of ground. Severus has his hands full with the day-to-day affairs of being Headmaster - a burden I happily admit I’m adding to more than is strictly necessary,’ – at this, she allowed a small glint to flash in her eye – ‘but the Carrows are out for blood, and they don’t care if it’s pure blood. Not where you lot are concerned. So tread carefully, even in my classes. Appear studious, dull and above all,  keep your heads down .’

‘Sorry, Professor,’ Ginny said quietly. ‘I was trying to list hexes and spells to practice when we get the DA goi...’ She was interrupted by a sharp glare from the older woman. ‘Sorry. Walls, ears. I know.’

‘So you should. Now, to business. I had an owl from your mother last night, Miss Weasley – all your family are fine, I’m glad to say, and keeping themselves out of trouble as far as possible. Your brother Charles has, publicly at least, returned to Romania to continue his fine work with dragons, although Molly suggested to me that in fact he is within easy reach if anything should happen. No word, I’m afraid, on the whereabouts of our favourite cousins, but I think you’ll agree no news is good news on that front,’

McGonagall paused to give Ginny a slightly sympathetic look. She knew, of course – and even if she didn’t, Ginny supposed it was pretty obvious to anyone with half a brain and a pair of eyes. So far, that description excluded the Minions, as Luna had taken to calling them, but she occasionally wondered how long that happy state of affairs would last, and what she would do if they found out about her previous relationship with Harry. Run, she supposed. If Charlie was near...

McGonagall had continued. ‘Miss Lovegood, your father continues to publish, in his customary and wildly irresponsible fashion. Molly writes that he has considered packing up and relocating to Sweden but, and I quote, ‘remains unbowed in his attempts to thwart the Dark Lord through the medium of sarcastic editorials and pin-the-tails-on-the-Blibbering-Humdinger features.’ I’m sure he’ll write to you when he finds the time.

‘A point of interest. Have either of you studied the notice board in your respective common rooms since you returned?’

Luna shook her head – it hadn’t really occurred to her, and in any case the board in the Ravenclaw common room was a grand but rather tasteless mural of a great bird, picked out in indigo and silver, and she avoided it whenever possible. Ginny said ‘No,’ a note of trepidation in her voice.

‘Do so. You may find something there to interest you.’ Seeing their looks of blank incomprehension, Minerva relented in her attempts to be secretive.

‘Oh, alright. Before... Well, last year, Professor Dumbledore invited a new teacher to Hogwarts. He was to run an extra credit class, for those interested in careers as aurors, curse-breakers...even teachers. What with one thing and another, those classes were held over to this year. Since the contract was already signed – and of course is magically binding – Professor Snape couldn’t very well turn the fellow away. He was introduced at the feast, a young man,’ and here a note of disapproval entered her tone, ‘somewhat scruffy, in green robes.’

Luna made a noise of comprehension. Ginny spoke, ‘We saw him, Professor. Only, we sort of...forgot about him.’ She looked down. ‘No, that’s not right. I saw him, and I wondered who he was, and Professor Snape said he was from Germany and here to teach extra classes. And then I saw Hagrid... Professor Hagrid, that is, knock over his beer and then I just...forgot to wonder about him. Luna didn’t, though.’ Ginny glanced at her friend, who was studying her wand with apparent interest. ‘She couldn’t understand why no-one else seemed to care that there was a new teacher that nobody had heard of. A lot of people didn’t remember about him at all, actually. It didn’t make sense, until you said about the green robes.’

McGonagall peered over her spectacles at Luna. ‘Very perceptive, Miss Lovegood. From what I understand, the gentleman does his best to remain unobtrusive. In any case, there are extra classes available – I’m afraid you will have to sacrifice one of your undoubtedly precious free periods, but I’m  assured that it will be worth it.’

Ginny wrinkled her nose at the thought of adding further weight to her already crowded timetable. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with, trying to get all her work done – ‘ keep your heads down! ’ – and resuscitate the DA under the hooked, greasy nose of Minion Number One. ‘Do we have to, Professor? I mean, what does this bloke actually teach?’

McGonagall looked stern again. ‘ This bloke , Miss Weasley, is a Professor of Hogwarts school, for good or ill, and as such demands a certain amount of respect. As for exactly what he teaches, I’m afraid to say that the details were between him and Professor Dumbledore. All I know is that his classes will be considered ‘useful’ to students desiring a more profound knowledge of magic. Your name was mentioned, as was Miss Lovegood’s.’

Ginny’s interest was piqued. McGonagall leaned forward a little and continued in a low voice. ‘It may also interest you to know, Miss Weasley, that Professor Dumbledore’s true intention in bringing the professor here was to instruct – covertly – another young man of our mutual acquaintance. Failing that, the skills he teaches may be useful to those close to our favourite cousins, in times of need. Are you with me?’

There was a slight flush to Ginny’s cheeks, and the fire-hardened look that so captivated Luna had returned to her eyes. 

‘Sold.’

‘Good. You’ll find the sign-up list on your notice-boards. Don’t worry about your next class – I’ll deal with Amycus. Find something...productive... to do with yourselves for the rest of the afternoon.’

Ginny and Luna stood. ‘Be careful, girls.’

‘We will, Professor. You too.’

The classroom door swung shut behind them. Minerva McGonagall slumped in her chair, recalling the shattered tortoise. 

‘We’ll see.’

  


### Vigenere

Ginny left it until later that night before she sought out the grubby roll of parchment, pinned to the notice board between a sharply-worded poster reminding students of Educational Decree Number Twenty Four - it looked to have been updated from Umbridge’s time - and Filch’s latest list of banned items. She noted with something approaching pride that someone, presumably the dyspeptic caretaker himself, had appended ‘and anything from Weaslees Wizardin Weezes!’ to the bottom of the list. 

The parchment itself was unobtrusive, and partially hidden by the bright purple Ministry notice. It was almost, Ginny thought, as if it had been placed there deliberately, where it would almost go un-noticed – much like the mysterious professor whose handiwork it represented. She took it down from the board and secreted herself in an armchair away from the fire. The common room was mostly empty this time of night – there seemed to be little taste for revelry these days, and even the most boisterous Gryffindors tended to retire by eleven. On the other hand, some part of her wanted to keep out of view, to respect the apparent wishes of the professor – she had not yet been able to discover his name. 

Curling up in her chair, she unrolled the grimy and stained parchment to find – and she was not, by now, entirely surprised – that the inside was entirely clean and new. Even if Professor McGonagall had not hinted so strongly that this class would be ‘of use’, she would have been sufficiently intrigued by this alone. Turning slightly to catch some of the light from the fire, though not so much that either of the third-year boys playing Gobstones at a small table on the other side would be able to catch a glimpse of the note’s contents, she read.

‘Extra credit class available for N.E.W.T. students only. If you wish to register your interest, please list your name and date of birth below IN GREEN INK ONLY. Interviews will be held next Saturday, seventeenth of September. Places are limited, so sign up today to avoid disappointment!’

The final sentence seemed to Ginny to be unnecessarily optimistic. Only two other people had signed the list, Neville and Parvati Patil. She vaguely wondered if even noticing the parchment was part of the ‘interview’ – and that was odd in itself. As far as she knew, no other subject at Hogwarts interviewed prospective students. Regardless, she fished a bottle of green ink from her bag, performed a brief unsticking charm to loosen the ink-crusted lid, and signed her name. 

By such small acts are our fates ultimately decided. Ginny returned the parchment roll to its place on the board as surreptitiously as possible, and as she turned for the stairs up to the girls’ dormitory, suddenly felt conspiratorial, as if she were a spy in her own land. Shaking off the ludicrous and momentary feeling, Ginny trudged upstairs to bed. 

Even then, as she lay underneath the familiar scratchy sheets, cool against her bare skin – it was still too hot for pyjamas - she could not entirely rid herself of the feeling that there was something suspicious about the whole business. Even if Dumbledore had invited the man, and McGonagall seemed relatively at peace with the idea, she was not convinced by someone who took such pains to keep themselves un-noticed. It had the unpleasant reek of the Minions about it. She tried to dismiss this thought as paranoia, entirely understandable in the circumstances, but the brain is a treacherous thing. Ginny could not stop herself wondering – what if they know? What if this whole thing is just a ruse, and they know about me and Harry, and they’re trying to get me to give something away... 

Despite her tiredness, Ginny did not sleep well that night. When the first creeping tentacles of sunlight began to tear at the high stained glass window of their dormitory, she gave up the attempt entirely and, gathering her dressing gown around her, she slipped down to the common room and began to write. She wrote to Harry, to her mother, to Fred and George and Bill. By the time the other Gryffindors began to tumble sleepily out of bed and flow down the stairs towards breakfast, lessons and other pursuits, the banked and dormant fire had been rekindled by new fuel, rolled into balls and expertly tossed into the embers. Ginny joined her compatriots. Not a one of them noticed that between the purple poster and Filch’s list, there was a blank stretch of dusty crimson felt where once a grubby roll of parchment had been pinned, equally unnoticed. 

  



	6. Welcome to the Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long awaited, I'm sure.

### The Touch

In the end, her fears were unfounded. On the following Friday morning, the weather turned. A blanket of iron lay above the castle, and when Ginny awoke a gentle drizzle was playing tunes on the glass. The cloud of fear and confusion that had initially pervaded the castle at the beginning of the new regime had settled, now, into a general dull fog of misery. Even on the increasingly rare sunny days - no Indian summer for them this year, autumn was well on the way - the castle seemed sunk in gloom.

At first it had seemed that the students would rebel, as they had against Umbridge’s reign of cutesy terror. There were a few incidents - Terry Boot had attempted to lead a peaceful sit-in protest against the new ‘Dark Arts’ classes. Amycus Carrow had taken exception to this, and had performed the Cruciatus curse repeatedly on Boot and several other students, to make a point. Boot had been in the Hospital Wing for three days, and no student had tried anything so bold again. Any infraction was punished mercilessly by the Carrows, who seemed to be in charge of all discipline as well as their ‘teaching’ duties. 

In the absence of a united front against the new oppressors, many students had taken to randomly targeting Slytherins as they passed in the halls, resulting in several minor injuries. This, in turn, had led to Alecto Carrow’s latest scheme. Forming the older Slytherins into groups, she had charged them with patrolling the halls between classes to ‘protect the student body’, particularly those parts of it wearing silver and green. In practice, this amounted to a secret police, watching and listening to everything that was said, for any signs of subversion. Already Ginny and her friends were learning to speak in code if they had anything to discuss in public.

Re-forming Dumbledore’s army was - should be - her first priority, she knew. But the wheres and the hows were proving difficult. The increased supervision made clandestine meetings almost impossible, let alone sneaking through the corridors to the Room of Requirement after dark. She had considered dozens of different ways of arranging a meeting, none of which was without a fatal flaw. Even if they were to meet, she doubted whether she or they could really deal with the ensuing - what was Harry’s word? – bullshit. She liked that word. Her lover – she refused, still, to think of him as her ex-lover – was not given to swearing, certainly not in comparison to Ron, but on the rare occasions when he had vented public spleen, there had been something about that word she had enjoyed. Something about the way he said it – flat, cursory, cutting – perhaps because it so accurately described the many strictures and conditions he lived under. 

Ginny liked to say it – silently, in general, but with force and volume inside her own head – whenever she felt the occasion demanded it. Those occasions were not shy in presenting themselves these days, as for the second time this week, Michael Corner sat down opposite her instead of at his own Ravenclaw table.

“Hi, Gin.”

He appeared to be trying to keep it casual, this time. Earlier in the week, he had grinned and touched her hand and contorted his words and features into something, she suspected, that had borne a passing resemblance to Actual Human Flirting. She hadn’t actually made winged bogies sprout from his nose, but it had been a close-run thing and he had, she was sure, felt it. After a couple of days grace, he seemed to be approaching by another path though still, no doubt, with the same intended goal.

She briefly fantasised about drawing her wand and giving Michael a sorely needed haircut. He had been ridiculously attached to his hair, even when they were briefly involved. She had even, she admitted with a pang of nausea, quite liked it. At the time. Girlish infatuation. Now, the thought of shearing him like a sheep held quite a lot of appeal.

She was interrupted in this reverie by the rush of wings and a simultaneous lifting of her own hair – draped freely over her shoulders this morning; she had considered braiding it or even attempting to tame some of the wilder excesses, but Harry’s word had come to the fore then, as well – as a school owl divebombed her, scooping up a cheeky beakful of Michael’s bacon and depositing a plain envelope squarely onto the half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs. 

“Why don’t they learn to aim?” she muttered irritably, as much to deflect Michael’s righteous anger at the theft of his breakfast as to conceal her excitement. The envelope was plain, with only her name, but she could have sworn it was Harry’s writing. Keep your head down. Corner finished aiming a few well-chosen words of his own at the retreating bird and turned to her. 

“What’s that, Gin?” His tone was suddenly careful, friendly. Playing it cool, she thought. Bullshit. 

“A letter, I expect. Looks about the right shape. And it’s Ginny, Michael.”

Pet names. A peculiar horror, and mostly an irrational one, but she had made damn sure that he knew that, more than once. Apparently he had forgotten, or at least had decided to ignore her biting remark.

“Not going to open it, then?”

Ginny sighed. “If you give me a chance. It’s addressed to me, though, so I shouldn’t think it’ll have much about…who is it you’re supporting this week, the Tornadoes?”

Michael’s brow furrowed. It was an easy shot - he changed opinions and allegiances on an almost daily basis, depending on who he was trying to impress, and became absurdly sensitive whenever this was pointed out - but he seemed more upset than Ginny had anticipated.

“I don’t… I’m not interested in Quidditch. No need to bite my head off, I’m sorry for breathing!”

An immediate retreat into self-pity when threatened was another thing - so boyish, such  bullshit ! - that she loathed. Ginny snapped back at him. “Just don’t be so bloody nosy, Michael. It’s none of your business, alright!”

Her voice had been a little louder than anticipated. A few people turned around, but she already had something of a reputation for feistiness, and most of the Gryffindors were aware of their previous dalliance. Remember the orchard, she thought to herself, before all this. Keep your head down. 

She managed to finish the rest of her breakfast without unseemly haste. Her first class, the ever-scintillating History of Magic, was not for another ten minutes, so she made a beeline for the nearest bathroom, dashed into a cubicle and locked the door behind her. Wedging her bag against the hinges – she wasn’t sure what good it would do, or even if it was necessary, but with a letter from Harry she would take no chances. Yanking the envelope from her pocket, she sat on the closed lid of the toilet and turned it over.

The ground fell from under her feet. There is nothing like sudden disappointment for placing a brick wall in one’s path. The writing was nothing like Harry’s. Well, there was something there, in the curve of the G, the little flick of the Ys, but that was where the resemblance ended. A flush of hot blood had coloured her, in her excitement and her dash from the Great Hall, and now she felt a damp coolness on her forehead as it drained from her, replaced with sweat, sickness and bile. She tore open the envelope. The message inside was too curt and brief to deserve the loathing she nonetheless aimed at it.

‘Miss Weasley,

You are invited to attend an interview for my class. Please report to the Founders’ Tower tomorrow morning (Saturday) at twenty past eleven. 

Regards,

J. Crowley, Prof.’

“Well,” Ginny thought, “At least I know the bugger’s name.”

  


### The Rope

Luna had only been to the Founder’s Tower once before, in her third year. She had been looking for a place to be alone with her thoughts – some of the Slytherin girls had been particularly cruel in comparing her loudly to the wrinkle-nosed bats they had been dissecting in Care of Magical Creatures, and she had not yet donned the secret armour of confidence that had come with membership in the DA and friendship with Ginny and Harry. Stumbling, tear-blinded, she had taken a wrong turn on the fourth floor and been misled by a staircase. The rest of the school was in lessons – she herself was skipping Divination, which by all accounts was no great loss – and so, when she found herself in a long and deserted corridor, dust motes illuminated by the light streaming through cracked windows, she was momentarily confused.

Luna was by now accustomed to the tricks of personal geography that characterised any journey from A to B at Hogwarts, but she was fairly certain that she had never known there was a courtyard – or a cloister, she supposed – in the middle of the sixth floor. The windows through which sunlight filtered were clean, if cracked, and they showed a small space, grassy, bounded on all sides by the stone walls of the castle. There were a few scattered clumps of pink-and-purple daffodils here and there in the grass, but it was what lay at the centre of the cloister that really drew her eye.

The stone blocks appeared much older than the walls of the castle around it. There were patches of moss and large cracks, and after about thirty feet the tower ended in an abrupt and messy ruin – as if some passing giant had snapped it off at the stem to pick his teeth. Luna had climbed through a broken window into the cloister – there did not appear to be any doorways, in any of the four walls – and approached. The tower gave off an almost palpable feeling of age, of cool stone and dank shadows, despite the sunlight and heat streaming down from the open sky. There was no door in the stone either, for all that she had walked around it several times, certain despite herself that the door was just around the next bend. 

The door was waiting for her, this time – and she no longer had to climb through  a window to get there. The cracked glass had been replaced by a long, low colonnade, and even the tower looked in better repair. The grass was new mown, through the clumps of fuschia daffodils were still thriving – which was odd, thought Luna. Daffodils were a spring flower – it was now mid-autumn – and, come to think of it, usually a more traditional yellow. She quickly forgot about this oddity, however, when she ducked under the low stone lintel and into the tower itself.

The interior, once her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, was in much better shape than she had imagined. The large circular room had been plastered, whitewashed and then covered with a huge and intricate diorama depicting, she saw after taking in a few details, the four founders. The painting stretched from floor to ceiling, showing in impossible detail famous incidents and impressions from the lives of Hogwarts’ original professors. Why, Luna wondered, was a masterpiece like this hidden away?

Speaking of hidden, where was the young man in the green robes, whose identity still remained something of a mystery? There were a few others in the room - she waved at Padma Patil, sitting cross legged on a spindly chair, looking somehow incomplete without her Gryffindor twin. A pair of fifth year Hufflepuffs she didn’t know were standing near the great carved fireplace - they had chosen to cluster around the large stone badger on the hearthstone, she noted. To Luna’s surprise, lurking near the door was Theodore Nott, a Slytherin seventh year. In her head, and in her feverish discussions with Ginny over the past week, she had pictured these classes as an extension or continuation of Dumbledore’s Army - although she supposed there was no reason why a Slytherin could not be a suitable candidate for the class. It would just make it harder for them to openly learn skills that might be able to aid Harry and the others - whatever those skills might be. Luna did not know Nott - she had heard some rumours about his father, in the seething stew of misinformation, intrigue and outright falsehood that was Great Hall conversation, but that was all. 

“Are we in the right place?” Luna moved instinctively aside as the loud and boisterous triumvirate of Michael Corner, Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot - still scarred after his ‘interview’ with the Minions at the start of term - entered behind her. Wandering over to where Padma was sitting, tight-lipped, she let her bag slip from her shoulder and sat, leaving a chair’s grace between herself and the taciturn girl. The three Ravenclaw boys ignored them, instead casting suspicious glances at Nott.

The room itself was structured a little like an ancient amphitheatre, she noticed. A series of wide, shallow steps made up most of the floor, sinking down to a great flagstone, shaped like a half-moon, in front of the hearth. Presumably it had once been in use as a lecture room - most of the steps had a motley assortment of armchairs and sofas. On either side of the enormous fireplace were vaulted doorways, with moth-eaten and faded curtains pulled across. Luna was about to wander over and see what was behind them when she heard her name called by a familiar voice.

“Luna!” Ginny strode fiercely across the room, with Neville trailing, red-faced, in her wake. Luna briefly felt a sting of jealousy, seeing him out of breath in Ginny’s company - then the rational part of her brain reasserted itself. Neville and Ginny’s dalliance had been short-lived and long over. Their secret love-making, secret to almost nobody except her twin brothers, had been a period of intense confusion for Luna, who loved and respected Neville as a dear friend in any other circumstances. She reminded herself that Neville could get flustered and turned around finding his way from Gryffindor Tower to the Great Hall, and that they had probably had to run here - the interview was supposed to have started twenty minutes ago. It seemed as though the erstwhile professor had pulled another disappearing act - there was no sign of him anywhere, even behind the gently wafting curtains. 

With the arrival of a few more students in dribs and drabs - Luna recognised Poppy Caxton, a seventh year Hufflepuff she was on nodding terms with, and Ginny gave a small grunt when Seamus and a Ravenclaw seventh year called McEwan rolled in, laughing at some private joke - the assembly seemed to be complete, apart from the one reason they were all there. Most of the students were inspecting the enormous mural or lounging around in groups, apparently unaware. Ginny, having settled herself next to Luna while Neville exclaimed delightedly over the fresco-ed depiction of Helga Hufflepuff discovering the uses of Mandragora, was the first to mention something that had been bothering Luna, physically as well as mentally. 

“Where is he, then? And what’s that bloody awful smell?”

There was indeed a distinct rankness to the air in the room. Neither of them could discover where it was issuing from, but it did not have the tinge or  twinkle of strong magic, nor the natural, dungy earthiness of the greenhouses - precluding Neville as the source. Most of the others had noticed it now, turning around to look for the source and making disgusted faces. It took Luna a moment, but she found the most appropriate comparison.

“It smells like a burning cauldron” she said, louder than she had intended.

“Merlin... Longbottom, have you been trying to do potions again?” Seamus jabbed an elbow at McEwan, who had spoken, but it was too late. The Ravenclaw did not share their potions classes, and would only have known about Neville’s disastrous record of melted cauldrons if a Gryffindor had told him. Neville coloured, but stood firm. “It’s not my fault. It’s Callyandra.”

This was among the more unusual pronouncements Neville had ever made. “It’s... what, sorry?” Ginny spluttered. 

“Calliandra haematocephala,” Neville went on, sounding more confident now that he was on his specialist subject. “It’s a plant from South America. The flowers are these big masses of red stamens - it’s called the powder puff or blood puff, because they’re full of red sap that looks like... well. Blood. And when you burn it, all the iron in the sap gives it a really strong smell like... er... boiling blood, I suppose. Er.”

Luna wondered if Neville had ever considered teaching as a profession. He had the rapt attention of most of the room, discussing a subject that a majority of the student body gave only a passing thought to even while they were studying it. The grisly nature of the plant was secondary, in her mind, to the questions of why, and where, someone was burning - what was it? - blood puffs? There didn’t appear to be a brazier or candle in the room - there was a fire built in the hearth, but it had not been lit, and the only light came from the high windows. Ginny appeared to have reached the same conclusion, and was heading down the wide steps at a trot, aiming for the curtains by the hearth. She was soon stopped in her tracks, however. 

“Mr Longbottom is quite correct.”

Leaning on the mantel of the fire, where there had very clearly been no-one a moment before, was the young professor. Ginny looked furious. He had not taken off an invisibility cloak, nor was there any sign that a charm had been dispelled. It was as if he had been standing there all along, and everyone else in the room had made an unconscious decision not to notice him until he spoke. Luna found herself thinking that the ‘young’ professor was possibly not as young as he appeared - he had the mannerisms and movements of someone much older, as he strode the few paces to stand in front of the fire, and gestured at the baffled congregation to sit. They did, shuffling in silence to arrange themselves on the assorted furniture, and to Luna’s mild surprise, the professor sat down too, settling cross legged on the hearthstone with his back to the fire. He appeared quite at home - his feet were bare, and as he hitched up his faded red robes to sit more comfortably, he revealed a scruffy pair of Muggle jeans, frayed at the cuff. 

“The smell, I’m afraid, is an unfortunate … byproduct of the combustion of large quantities of haemocephalus, the iron … particles found in the sap of the plants Mr Longbottom was describing,” the young man continued, with a magnanimous gesture of his wand. “Jolly well done, by the way.”

He looked up and around at the gathered students, as if surprised to see them. “Hello. My name is Jacob. If protocol really … insists, you can call me Professor Crowley.”

### The Catch

“Professor” Crowley - Ginny could not quite bring herself to give the full title to this strange, scruffy man sitting cross-legged, like an awkwardly-sewn scarecrow - was an arresting figure. Quite apart from his unusual mannerisms and the way he waved his wand around with apparent unconcern as he was talking, the man’s voice was hypnotic. He spoke with a very soft accent, one that she could not place in the slightest. She was quite used to European accents, what with the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students billeted with them a few years ago, and Fred and George had brought home one or two ‘exotic’ girls in their time, but Crowley spoke as if he came from somewhere else entirely. She wondered if he normally spoke English - he didn’t seem to have much of a grasp on the rhythms of speech. His voice lilted and twisted, slowly emphasising some words and rushing through others at a quick pace. 

“Let me first make a few things clear today’s meeting is not a class. It is.... simply, an occasion where you can meet me, I can meet you. I will introduce to you the very basic frame of what I can teach and you will decide, in your own time, whether to attend the first class. Due to.... the nature, of what I am offering to teach you.... classes will not take place inside your regular school hours. Instead I am thinking that I will offer them at a time that suits us all best, probably... in the early evening, after you have eaten. Some of the activities we undertake will be strenuous, and full stomachs are recommended. 

“Another thing I must make clear. You have all been invited here today because you have passed a number of tests. On paper, you all meet certain require....ments, forms and functions, states of mentality and you have been.... recommended. Likewise, you have passed the physical tests of not only discovering how to sign up for this class, but also finding today’s meeting. The Founders’ Tower occupies an interesting trick of geography - it occupies the same physical space as the sixth floor... of Hogwarts Castle but not the same temporal space or spatial relativity curve it is made manifest...in the minds of those here present. Fortunately.... if you choose to attend the classes I am offering they will take place in a much more physically mundane setting I have an office and.... classroom set aside on the third floor. 

“You are all astute young people and you....may have noticed that I am placing much emphasis on your choices and your actions. That is relevant and if you will indulge me I will explain why.”

Ginny thought this was a bit rich. They were all there at his summons, after all. She was intrigued by what the man had said about the Tower, however. Did that mean she would not be able to find it again, like the Room of Requirement, unless she was in need? Curious. The Professor had resumed speaking, and she noticed that Luna was especially rapt. Perhaps, as was not uncommon, she was hearing something in his words that Ginny had not grasped. Crowley had stood up, and was pacing back and forth, one hand in the small of his back and the other gesturing with his wand, a short, stubby, unvarnished affair. He looked as if he was practicing a lecture, or delivering it to himself.

“There are, as you know, schools of magic. The dark arts curses necromancy etcetera. Naturalist thaumaturgy, comprising... herbology alchemy potions and the study of the magical bestiary. The scholarly...arts too, history arithmancy, runes, divination, astronomy your study here... touches upon many of these, to one degree or another while focusing mainly on the manipulation of arcane energies, charms hexes transfiguration and so on. There is, however,  another school of magic. 

“It is little-regarded and it has not been taught at this school, or indeed any.... other for many hundreds of years. In point of fact, the practice of this art was made illegal in your country under a Ministry of Magic statute nearly two centuries ago a statute that...to my knowledge has never been repealed. Which makes me, and by extension all of you should you choose to participate in the classes I offer... criminals.”

Following this extraordinary pronouncement, Crowley did something even more unexpected. Tossing his wand high in the air with one hand, he gestured towards the unlit fire in the great hearth. Ginny had seen fires lit with magic before, of course, but not with such a great gout of scarlet flame - pouring forth, she realised, from his empty hand. Crowley’s wand was still spinning lazily in the air. Some of the others had noticed this as well, apparently; there was a quiet muttering of exclamations, which were quickly surpassed by gasps, obscenities and even a shriek from one of the Hufflepuffs. As the wand began to fall, Crowley had snatched it from the air with his free hand, turned, and thrust it into the fire.

He withdrew it, fingers apparently unburned, from the crackling red flame in the fireplace and turned to the appalled group.

“Welcome to the gang. The subject of which I speak is called sorcery.”

As if things could get no more strange, Crowley placed the wand his mouth and issued a streaming puff, followed by a perfect ring, of pink-tinged smoke. The smell of the blood-puffs returned, stronger. Ginny gaped for a moment and then burst out laughing. 

“It’s a cigar!”

Crowley grinned, apparently delighted. “Well noticed, Miss Weasley. You’ll do well here, I think. Tell me, do you have a mind to break the law?”

### The Kick

Evidently Ginny had been one of the few. Of the initial gathering in the Founder’s tower that Saturday, there were only eight gathered in the third floor corridor after dinner on the Thursday evening. She was the only Gryffindor - evidently Neville had communicated with his grandmother on the subject and had been shamed into not attending, as he seemed unwilling to talk to her about the class when she mentioned it. She grown bored of asking, as he seemed to glaze over and begin muttering about climbing vines whenever she did. 

Ginny avoided the gazes of the two Slytherins, Nott and Greengrass, and went to stand next to Luna, who was animatedly chattering at Padma Patil. The older girl had rarely looked less happy - and from what Ginny had seen of Parvati in recent days, the sentiment was shared. The state of cold war that now existed, even here at Hogwarts, was taking its toll. They had not yet been able to organise the DA, beyond promises from a few stalwarts that when, if ever, the time came, they would be ready. The Minions were ever watchful, and their elaborate and vicious punishments were swiftly becoming legendary.

Poppy Caxton, a Hufflepuff that Ginny had clashed with a few times - she had been one of Hufflepuff’s Chasers when Quidditch had still been allowed at the school - was looking uncomfortable at the attentions of McEwan... she could not remember his first name. A bullshitter if ever there was one, she thought. Terry Boot, wearing his scars with pride, was standing alone, looking lost without his ever-present cronies - though she was thankful that Michael had not made the grade. She had barely said hello to Luna and Padma - who mumbled a distracted greeting - when the iron-studded door of the classroom creaked open. Accompanied by a waft of sweet-smelling steam, Crowley’s head emerged. 

“Ah, you’re all here. Robes and book bags too how sweet. Trip along... inside then.”

Ginny knew the classroom as the one in which they had taken History of Magic in her first year - but beyond that, she barely recognised it. The floor and walls were covered in rich, beautifully patterned carpets and hanging tapestries. The ceiling was hung in waves of cloth, deep reds, browns and greens. A few plants, some in large earthenware pots, trailed aimlessly in the corners. There were no desks or blackboards, although by now she was hardly surprised. Instead, large cushions and long, low sofas draped in bright fabrics were scattered haphazardly around the room, forming an approximate circle. It reminded Ginny of her family’s trip to Egypt, and the common room at their hotel. She half expected to see... well, there it was. A tall confection of dull silver-black metal and bright glass, with several long pipes attached to a huge glass bulb at the base - a water pipe. It stood, shadowed by one of the trailing plants, next to an enormous cylindrical construct of brass that shuddered, crashed  and emitted occasional belches of the same vapour that they had smelled when they came in. 

The assorted students shuffled awkwardly as Professor Crowley bounded around the room, gesturing expansively and directing them to sit wherever took their fancy. Eventually she and Luna settled on one of the sofas, rich with overstuffed cushions. Ginny sat awkwardly, crosslegged, but Luna had apparently done this before. She dropped her bag behind the sofa and simply lounged, propping herself upon one elbow. The others arranged themselves as best they could. Poppy Caxton, eager to appear studious, had brought out a roll of parchment and a quill and was attempting to find a solid surface on which she could lean. When they had all settled, Crowley perched on a large cerise cushion with orange tassels, peered around at them, and chuckled. 

“You’re all very keen, aren’t you? Have you all brought books?”

There were a few mutterings. “Yes, Professor,” Nott ventured cautiously.

“Really? How very interesting. Let’s see, does... anyone have Curlicue’s On the Convocation... of the Elements?”

A collective shaking of heads, eyes cast down. Ginny - who was fairly sure what the game was - and Luna remained unbowed. Crowley looked around, a very faint grin twitching on his lips.

“No? How... about Alabaster and Turle, A Hiftory of Pagan Magick in the Outer Hebrides 983-1412? That has some interesting speculations...No? The Liber Paginarum Fulvarum? Well, no, you wouldn’t, I just...  made that one up”

Poppy Caxton made a ruffled sound. Crowley looked delighted. 

“Here lyeth a lesson dear friends. What I have to teach can...not be found in books. Nor will you find any books on sorcery simply.... lying about in Hogwarts’ library. If you recall we...are gathered here a criminal fraternity. Would anyone care for some tea?”

He waved a hand at the clanking brass engine, which began to rattle and make even more noise than before. After an uproarious belch of steam, a deafening series of crashes and a curious tinkling sound, a dozen small copper pipes whistled simultaneously and spewed out jets of a steaming tawny liquid into small painted glasses, waiting on a tray. Crowley picked up the tray and offered each of them a cup. Hesitant and remembering the blood puff cigar, Ginny sniffed at it. Luna had taken an appreciative sip already. It smelled of mint, and sage, and mostly of honey. 

“It’s perfectly safe, Miss Weasley, I assure you. I took the recipe from one of the desert tribes of the Sinai they usually add a... splash of goat milk, but dairy and I do not get on. I believe the kitchens... will have some, if any of you...?” Crowley trailed off, apparently genuinely concerned that the lack of goat’s milk would put them off. 

“What the hell is going on?” McEwan had found his voice at last. “I mean, lovely tea, Professor, but by Merlin’s tangled nose hair, none of us have the faintest idea why we’re here!”

Crowley smiled, perfectly unflustered.”Quite so, Mr McEwan, quite so. Forgive my dithering. In truth, though I have lived many... years this is the first time I have dabbled officially in the realm of statutory education so my manner... may be a little unusual to you.”

He turned to the rest of the group. “You are here to learn the arts and practices of elemental manipulation sometimes … called sorcery. By extension, this will involve some astral.... travel, a little esoteric botany and quite a lot of tea. I’m in favour of tea, you will find. What these classes will... not involve is books quills recitation of facts or dates homework or continuing to call me Professor. I am not... of an academic cast of mind some would say I never have been even... when I attended what little schooling there was available to me. My name is Jacob. I will refer to you all by your given names unless....you particularly object, and I suggest you do the same for me.

“In fact, you should try to think of me less as a teacher and yourself students than... a group of like-minded wizards, aptly suited to the...path ahead of us. A warning or two, though. Do not... allow yourself to be fooled into thinking that this will be an easy path.” Here, Crowley’s voice took on a sterner, more clipped tone. “Though there will be no homework or books, you will work harder and longer in this classroom than in many of your other subjects. Another reason you have all been chosen is that you excel in practical magic of various disciplines. There will be no exams for what you study here, but there is every chance that what you learn will either save your life...or end it.

“The motto of this school, I would remind you... Draco Dormiens, Numquam Titilandus never poke a sleeping dragon. A sterling piece of advice in any situation but which I would... recommend you all most strongly to apply in ...dealing with this form of magic. You will be drawing upon a fathomless well of power, and the currents run very deep indeed. Tread lightly, fellow travellers.”

Silence blanketed the room. Ginny glanced around. Her fellow students wore looks ranging from concern to outright fear. Crowley chuckled.

“That said, I can assure you that if you follow my directions, no unreasonable harm will come to you. Now, enjoy your tea, and I shall lay out a little...background on the subject.

“You will be aware, if you have ever studied Divination with a competent tutor... Oh, I see. Well then... There are a number of aspects of existence as we know them. Call them dimensions, or worlds, or whatever.. you please. The widely... accepted practice is to refer to the astral planes. We live, breath and defecate on what is... usually called the Prime Material plane. Wizards draw power from the magical fundaments of the Prime Material, and return that power in the casting of spells thus...balance is maintained. Of the other known planes, only the elemental need... concern us at this moment.

“The five elemental planes represent those of classical antiquity which course... if you have paid any attention in your History of Ma... no, of course. Cuthbert Binns, is it? Well... those of classical antiquity fire... air water and earth, with an... additional plane... that need not concern any of us at present. Do you... have any questions regarding what I have thus far outlayed?”

Crowley peered around. He had been speaking for some time, but everyone seemed to have kept up. Even Padma Patil looked fiercely enraptured, whatever her troubles outside the classroom. The Slytherin girl raised a tentative hand.

“...Daphne, isn’t it?”

“Er, yes, Professor. Sorry, er... Jacob. Um. You mentioned earlier... well, er…”

“I don’t actually bite, Daphne” She coloured a little, and smiled.

“You mentioned astral travel. So, does that mean travel between the planes? Will we need to go outside Hogwarts to do that?”

“Oh I say...” murmured Crowley, evidently impressed, “That was fast. I’m afraid... that as with so many things in this field of study the answer... to your question is both yes and no. Yes, we will travel between the planes, specifically from the Prime Material to the elemental planes and back. At one and the same time we... will not physically leave the castle, or indeed this classroom...at any point. We are only... human, after all, only meat and water. If you or I, Daphne, were to physically mani... fest in the plane of fire for example we would be boiled away to dust in a matter of... moments. There is no oxygen to breathe in the plane of water, nor a place to stand in the realm of air. Instead, our consciousness... travels, while our bodies remain. This in itself is a skill to be mastered, but... you would not... be here if I did not have faith in you.”

### The Last Hurrah

“I suppose that… rather than talk, I should simply…show.”

With these words, Crowley stood - springing up quite readily from the enormous cushion upon which he had been perched like a poorly-thatched Buddha - and rolled up the sleeves of his rather ragged robes. It did not escape Luna’s notice that the cuffs were somewhat singed, and a few moments later she understood why. 

“To begin with, a demonstration of the… art. It is best, I think, to show you what you are getting… into. You will work hard and suffer many troubles to attain these powers but… I hope you… will agree, they are worth it. This is a little trick that you have already seen!”

Raising his right hand slowly, the uncommonly old young man crooked his fingers into something like a claw. His thumb was bent so far back that the ball showed white through the skin, the third and fourth fingers pulled back, the index and middle raised like talons. He moved his hand slowly from left to right, giving all the students the chance to see how it was done. Then with a sudden burst of movement - wrist locked and forearm twisting - he reached as if to grab a falling object from the air. Instead a slow, rolling ball of yellow flame poured from the center of his palm, swirling and licking his fingertips. The fire was only small at first, but after a few minutes Crowley raised his arm a little and the flame intensified, becoming a translucent blue and reaching more than a meter from his palm. No longer was it a few gentle tongues of fire - this was an inferno, and the skin on Luna’s arms and face began to prickle even though she sat several meters away. Crowley raised his arm higher and the blue flame deepened, becoming almost invisible. The air above him shimmered, though throughout it all his face remained beatifically calm. The heat in the room intensified. 

Very slowly, making sure they could all see, the professor brought his left hand around in the same crooked claw that his right had made, and placed it firmly behind the source of the fire. Instantly the magical flame became brilliant white, a raging incandescence that, just as suddenly, winked out. In the afterglow, blinking rapidly to clear her vision, Luna saw Crowley’s shoulders slump. His voice was slightly hoarse when he spoke.

“If any of you have ever wondered what exactly… happens when you tickle a sleeping dragon, it would be comparable to that. I only showed you for a moment the full capabilities of the realm of fire… or, I should say,  my full capabilities in that realm, for I am by no means a master of this… art - only for a moment, I say, because a few more moments and we would be looking at a hole in the ceiling and a few embarrassing questions… as to how we melted solid stone.”

He looked around at the gawping students, apparently noticing for the first time that many of them were gazing open-mouthed not at him, but at the large paisley curtain above his head that was now charring nicely. 

“Ah. Well, an opportunity for… another demonstration, I suppose.” He grinned around at them, and Ginny giggled. Luna smiled, at least in part because her friend’s laughter was always infectious. 

“You all noted the manner in which I formed the sign of  logi , the flame?” Crowley continued, apparently unconcerned at the growing fire a few feet above him. There were mutters of assent and a few quiet ‘yes?’-es from the students. Luna remained silent, intent on remembering how his fingers had looked, how his arm had moved. 

“Fire is a relatively simple beast - we poor dumb apes should… hardly have discovered it otherwise. The kindling of flame, there… lies the rub, but after that it becomes a matter of direction and control. Water, on the other hand, flows easily, but her currents are hard to read and harder still to master.”

With his left hand placed, palm down, squarely at his belly, Crowley raised his right to eye-level and rolled the fingers, making small cracking sounds. With a flourish, he laid his fingers one on top of another and pressed his thumb hard on top of them, forming something resembling a cone. From this fell a sudden gush of clear water, a waterfall in miniature.

Luna expected it to splash to the ground, but the young man turned his left hand over and, as if cradling an invisible grapefruit - it was a ludicrous image, but that really was what it looked like to her - let the water drain into his palm. As if it was filling a fishbowl, the flow began to make a transparent shimmering sphere. It grew larger and larger until the edges of the sphere touched Crowley’s outstretched fingers. With a motion almost too sudden to see, he threw the ball of water upwards. It broke into a thousand smaller drops, soaking the now ablaze curtain. The fire was extinguished instantly, but there was enough water to thoroughly drench the curtain and what goes up, Luna thought…

Streams and rivulets of dirty, ash-filled run-off began to drizzle back down and fall towards the professor.

“All our actions have consequences!” he cried, as the filthy water engulfed him. Several students laughed, and Luna joined them this time. Naturally, however, the sorcerer had the last laugh. Swirling his hands together rapidly, he thrust them towards the floor. There was a  thump and a rush of hot air that knocked the nearest students onto their backs. A moment later, Crowley appeared dry and comfortable as before, as did the curtain. 

Even from the students who had been knocked over, there was applause. The young man appeared to bask in it for a moment, then waved a hand for silence. 

“Thus, and so. A small… display of some of the skills you will, in time, come to master. Unfortunately, as is… so often the case, we must now turn to the tedious and sorry business of the actual hard work. But first, tea!”

He had turned to the enormous tea-engine, which had survived apparently unscathed, when someone spoke up for the first time since the ‘demonstration’ had begun. To Luna’s surprise, it was her.

“Pr…Jacob? What about earth?”

Crowley bustled with the tea engine, not entirely convincingly. “Mmm?”

“There are four elemental planes? You showed us fire, water, air… what about earth?”

There was silence for a few more uncomfortable moments. When Crowley turned around, he did not meet her gaze.

“Ah. Yes. Well. A matter of safety, in fact. I am… embarrassed, I should say… to admit that my control of Earth magic is not as complete as it should be. Were I to demonstrate its use within these walls, I would… risk doing terrible harm… to you all. Rest assured, Luna, that you will learn just as much of the realm of earth as the others. But to practice that power we will need to go to a place far, far from here. Earth magic is among the most powerful and…temperamental of sorcerous powers. Like the… plates on which the continents move, its progress can be ponderous, slow, hard to measure. But few would dare stand in it’s way.”


	7. The Worlds Between The Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are learned, the magic system is sketchily explained and, if you're lucky, a kiss happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this were written at different times and that probably shows. Also that ending is *not* a cliffhanger, I just haven't written the rest yet, but I wanted to get the damn thing up. Will be added to later.  
> (ETA: Added to it, later. Ooh, spoopy.)
> 
> (This is way, way slower burn than I expected, helped along by my taking breaks of up to a year between chapters. Soz?)
> 
> CW: mild peril, torture-ish, some bollocks spouted.

### The Realm of Pain

Their second class - Ginny was beginning to wonder if that was the right word - was scheduled for the Saturday night. Since she had no Quidditch to worry about, weekends had become mostly a matter of trying to avoid trouble. Luckily - or otherwise - their teachers had decided that all the events of the previous year and the new regime aside, their workload was not nearly heavy enough. Evidently, even if the world was going to hell, there were still going to be N.E.W.T.S.

One unexpected blessing of Snape’s minions teaching Dark Arts and Muggle Studies had become clear after the first few classes. Neither of the Carrows had ever been teachers before and, aside from threats and curses, they had no idea how to teach - or, for that matter, how to set homework. Amycus Carrow may have had a sharp eye for any sign of distraction or drowsiness - offenses that were swiftly and brutally punished - but his lectures usually faltered and ran short by ten or twenty minutes into the hour-long classes, to be hastily followed up by a command to read their textbook. Their textbook was an excruciatingly badly-written treatise by an Estonian wizard of dubious character, whose descriptions of various curses and hexes verged on the frothingly ecstatic. This mild form of torture aside, Carrow’s idea of homework was ‘Practice the Disintegrating Curse”, a laughably simple variation on the standard Reductor charm they had all learned in their Second year, and which she had arguably mastered in the DA.

Thus far, Carrow appeared not to have recognised her. Dark Arts was her last class on Friday afternoons, and she was mastering the art of keeping her head down literally and figuratively, sitting near the back and making sure that her hair fell forward over her face while she ‘studied’ the book intensely. The Carrows were not fearsome. They were big, mean, vicious, and stupid. She wondered vaguely if Voldemort or Snape knew how ineffective they would be at keeping Hogwarts under control - as, she assumed, was their intention. Fear and pain were fine weapons if all you cared about were making people scared and angry. But she was well past fear, and anger was her true companion.

Amycus Carrow stood at the head of the class. Taking care not to move her head - the rest of the class was sunk in gloom, reading the third chapter of the textbook - she glanced at him. In their few classes so far, he had sat or left the room when his rambling, ranting ‘lecture’ had come to a close, but today he stood stock still. He was staring, she realised with another glance to confirm it, right at her.

Keep your head down. Don’t draw attention. A voice spoke in her ear, her mother, McGonagall, Harry… don’t do anything stupid. Not that Harry had… well, whatever he had said to Umbridge, it had earned him a permanent scar on his hand. She wondered what scars she would bear from this.

“Girl.”

Presumably Terry Boot’s fate would be a picnic by comparison, but she found herself unafraid of pain. Strange that someone she loved - cared for, adored, had kissed goodbye despite her better judgment - was capable of causing her more pain than a curse cast by a hated enemy. At least, she assumed. She had not been a victim of the Cruciatus curse yet, but it had only been a matter of time.

“Girl. Red hair. You, there, at the back.”

She did her best to ignore it for a second or two more, but Amycus Carrow’s patience was short. Her book shredded into flakes and fibres in front of her as a loud crack echoed around the room. Deathly silence followed. Ginny stood, not looking at him.

“To the front.”

There was no point waiting. None of the inevitable stomach-crawling shame that usually accompanied a slow, solitary walk to the front of the class. Instead she felt calm, as if she walked on a cloud. Slytherin whispers began to filter through as she came to a halt in front of Carrow. Don’t do anything stupid…

“I know you, girl.”

“I’ve been here every class, Professor.”

That probably counted as doing something stupid.

“Hah. Amusing girl. Stand up straight.”

Ginny shrugged her shoulders. Carrow was a bully, and bullies preyed on weakness. When they met strength, they ran or they lashed out. She was strong, and she was a teenage girl. This man would not allow himself to run, and so, inevitably…

“Tell me. What does Gierdoch say about the Flagrante curse on page… page 48?”

She had not read page 48. She had not really taken in any of the book, once it had become apparent that very little useful information was to be gained from it.

“It doesn’t matter”, she said, her voice perfectly neutral.

“I beg your pardon, girl?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re looking for an excuse. Here it is.”

Carrow looked around at the room, playing to his audience. The Slytherins made a few comments and jeers.

“Big words from a small girl.”

Ginny had had enough. If it was going to happen, let it happen. “You couldn’t beat me last year when you and your mates came here to kill Dumbledore. You couldn’t defeat a ‘small girl’ then, so why don’t you take a shot now?”

Carrow smiled. All teeth, no amusement whatsoever.

“I thought I knew you from somewhere. Maybe you should have learned to keep your mouth shut.”

“Maybe Voldemort should have sent a better class of Death Eater to Hogwarts.”

She barely had time to get the last word out of her mouth. The curse hit her squarely in the chest and all was black and blood. Pain was pain, it passed. It would pass. It would.

When her breath and her sight returned, Ginny tasted iron. She was on her knees. Furious at this weakness, she struggled upright. Someone was talking, somewhere, and laughing. Carrow stood, a foot or two away, saying something to a Slytherin girl who stood at his side. He was demonstrating, she realised.

She must have bitten her tongue. She spat blood, a great mass of it, right at Carrow’s feet. The second curse hit her a fraction of a second later, and this time everything went white. Someone was laughing, red teeth and rage, and she realised it was her.

“Too easy.”

Pain was just pain, and pain would pass. She would not likely forget it, but nor did she have to let it rule her. Ginny walked away, let her brain register and categorise the agony, certain that later, much later, it would present her with the bill and she would feel every inch of it. For now, though, as other students - Slytherins and Gryffindors, she realised - stepped up with their wands drawn, she would be somewhere else.

She had kissed Harry. That was a pleasant memory. Bittersweet is still sweet. She had kissed Harry, something for him to remember. They had not fucked, not that time. It would have been sweet too, but sometimes kissing is enough. They had kissed and talked, and not kissed again, but it had not felt like a loss. He had told her what he had planned - part of it, at least, enough to himself, not enough to worry her. At least, that was his intention. She was not worried that he would come to danger, because he was stupid and noble and lucky and would always meet danger and escape it, somehow. She did worry, though, that he would die trying to protect her, or his friends or all of them, somehow.

That was the fear that she allowed herself, the only fear that Ginny Weasley countenanced. And it was enough to keep herself from pining, and to drive herself forward. She would endure pain. She would learn this strange, strange sorcery, and she would figure out what she didn’t trust about the young professor who taught it. She would help Harry, however she could, and she would keep on living.

Spasms rippled through her body. Dull thudding aches in her legs and side, a tightness in her chest - some deep, distant part of her brain registered that she had fallen to the floor, that slowly she was asphyxiating, that her torturers were still stepping up, willingly or otherwise.

Ginny found herself replaying scenes from their final few days at the Burrow. Harry, Ron and Hermione all closeted in Ron’s room, talking about secrets and plans - how they would find the Horcruxes, how they would destroy them. She realised they probably had no idea she knew anything about their plans. It was listening to them, through the paper-thin walls - their helplessness, their lack of a plan, lack of any idea of what to do next but determination to do it anyway - that had cemented her conviction to return to the fight. Their journey was not hers, and whatever future she and Harry had - if they had one at all - she would have to get there by a different path. Today’s lesson was clear enough - the time for hiding and keeping her head down was done. She had work to do, and if it began anywhere, it began with Horcruxes.

Whatever they were. When this - this endless aeon of white agony - was done, she would go to Luna. There was no-one better. They would figure out what Horcruxes were, and how to destroy them. Somebody had to.

She could hear birds, she realised. This seemed somewhat unlikely, so she opened her eyes and found herself looking out of the window of the hospital wing. Luna had come to her, evidently, and was curled up asleep in a chair, her outstretched fingers a few centimeters from her own. She reached - the pain presented its bill, all at once and in full, but she grasped Luna’s hand anyway, and closed her eyes, and slept.

Madam Pomfrey was a ministering angel, kept busy by devils. Ginny was not the only victim of the Carrows in the hospital wing that Saturday morning, though she was by a distance the worst off. Several of the others were unlucky first years, used by Amycus for the Seventh-years’ target practice. Alecto Carrow had her own special methods of punishment, and a few of these unfortunates were present too - limbs firmly locked together and bound with razor-tipped snakeweed vines, which Madam Pomfrey was painstakingly unwrapping.

She had given Ginny a draught of something, when she had awoken again - Luna had gone, but had left an origami duck and Arnold, her pygmy puff, who was curled up in the crook of her neck - and it had worked its warm, wicked way down through her, taking most of the wracking aches with it. Unfortunately it had decided to exit through her bladder and she had barely made it to the bathroom in time. Madam Pomfrey had clucked and fussed as she settled Ginny back into bed, chiding her that all her good work had been undone.

That wasn’t quite true, but it was early afternoon before Ginny was allowed to leave the hospital wing, despite the Healer’s protestations. She made her way carefully and slowly towards Gryffindor Tower, occasionally bracing on the walls for support and hating herself every time for her weakness.

Climbing through the portrait hole was agony enough, but she was barely through when Neville - of all people - swept her up in a bone-crushing hug.

“Blooffy helf!” she managed. Neville let her go and took a step back, embarassed.

“Sorry. Er, sorry, Ginny. I just… well, we all heard.”

There were others around, too many. She would have dearly loved the comfort of a hug - a proper one, but slightly less painful - even from Neville. Why were so many people looking at her?

Guilt, she realised. There had been Gryffindors among those who had tortured her. She knew full well that it had not been their choice, that they would have been targets too if they had not.

“…tried to go easy…”

“…so sorry…”

“…we didn’t…”

It was all noise. She did not trust herself not to scream, so instead, Ginny smiled.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. Thank you. Don’t worry. I’m okay. Thank you. No, it’s really okay”

They were treating her like a broken thing, a hero who had lost the only important battle. She shook herself and stood up straight.

“Really, everyone. I know, you didn’t want to, didn’t have a choice. I get it. We all have to do things we don’t want to do, here, now, under this… whatever this is. I’m not the first, and I won’t be the last. And we’re all going to have to get a lot stronger if we want to get through this.”

She was giving a speech, she realised. Barely standing, barely _functioning_ and giving a fucking speech like she was some kind of… well, for all that, she was a leader. Of something. Of whatever there was left of Dumbledore’s Army.

“They’re going to make us fight each other, hurt each other, because that’s what they want - us, divided, against each other. We defeat them by staying together. We can’t fight them with wands, not without people getting killed. But we can fight them like this - by standing together.”

There was a weak cheer from the assembled Gryffindors. She slumped, whatever energy that had driven her now leaving her to her own resources. Which were few. She barely made it to a chair, Neville helping her without - bless him - appearing to support her.

“You’ll be okay, Ginny. I’ve seen… Well, I’ve seen worse.”

Ginny remembered his parents then, and could have cried. But that part of her had gone, set light in the orchard and burned away by Amycus Carrow, by Voldemort and his followers. Another mark in the ledger.

Neville sat with her in easy silence, drawing and annotating a diagram of some complicated-looking plant. Her thoughts turned towards the evening, and the next class with the strange young man. Today they would actually travel, he had said. So much for that - she wondered whether her body would be capable of it. It would, she decided. It was the mind she was worried about.

Two strange and sudden thoughts struck her at the same instant. If what she understood of this ‘astral travel’ business was true, the body remained behind while the mind went wandering. Would it be possible… what if, while the mind was away, another mind could take up residence? She had not thought about her first year in a long time, apart from occasional cold-sweat nightmares and even those had diminished. She would have to talk to Crowley and see what he thought. It was very possible she was being overly dramatic, and that wouldn’t do at all.

The second thought she voiced out loud. “Neville?”

“Mm?”

“Do you know anything about snakeweed?”

Neville looked briefly perplexed, but his love of plants came quickly to the fore. “It’s a bindweed. Found in Northern Ireland and Scotland. There are two main varieties - a flowering vine with medicinal properties and a creeper similar to hogweed, with very sharp thorns.”

“That’s the one. Know how to kill it?”

“It usually wraps around a tree and slowly gets tighter until it cuts through the trunk. They tried to use it for forestry but too many people lost hands. Most of the ways of killing it are quite… drastic.”

“Like?”

“Well, Fiendfyre. Disintegrating the tree. Building a wall around the forest and forgetting about it. That sort of thing.”

“Oh. Nothing a bit simpler?”

“I suppose, since it’s a creeper, you could try giving it something else to wind around.”

“Would that work?” Ginny was fascinated despite herself.

“In theory. They do it with some varieties of Japanese hogweed - give it a more attractive target and it’ll bind itself to that, instead. Then you just have to get it off the first thing, but snakeweed moves pretty fast - you could use a really big stick and keep turning it and it would all get wound on that. Why, anyway?”

“Oh, just a thought. If I were you though, I’d stop by the hospital wing and have a word with Madam Pomfrey though.”

Ginny settled back in the chair and let exhaustion and pain bring her to sleep. The evening was still a few hours away, and she had time, for once, to rest.

 

### The Realm of Fire

After what seemed like far too short a time, the great bell above the entrance hall rang, and Ginny joined the rest of the flow of students heading down to dinner. The pain was mostly gone now, an emptiness that had been filled by the smoky clouds upon which she walked. She had abandoned what her mother thought of as ‘proper’ school shoes for a pair of more practical black boots, after the battle of the Astronomy tower last year where a loose shoelace had nearly got her killed. She had chosen these new boots mostly for the business end, hobnailed soles and steel toecaps - the fact that they also clung to her calves in a rather pleasing way and made her a good two inches taller was purely incidental. Fred and George had called them ‘shit-kickers’, a term she had quickly adopted. Today she felt as though they had had an extra layer added - she could see her feet touching the ground, could hear the heavy click-tread of her shitkickers, but could not quite make the connection between her feet, her legs, the rest of her and the ground. A residual effect of the curse, perhaps - or the medicine.

Dinner was good. Food was good. The house elves in the kitchen, at least, seemed to be beneath the notice of the school’s new regime and had continued to put out a magnificent spread every day - this, for sure, was partly responsible for what remained of the school’s morale. One day, perhaps, Snape and his minions would figure that out, but for now food remained a pleasure. After one bite of a pork chop - roasted in some tangy brown sauce until crispy and charred at the edges, delightfully tender in the middle - Ginny was reminded that she had missed at least three meals, and set to with a will - starting with another pork chop.

She grinned inwardly as she saw Michael Corner come hurrying into the hall, stop dead at the sight of her, then make his way abashedly to the far side of the Ravenclaw table. He had complained several times, during their not-brief-enough relationship, that she ate too much and in a manner he considered unladylike. The last occasion, the small fight that had snowballed into their breakup, she had taken great pleasure in explaining that in a family of six brothers it was a case of using your knife to duel with one hand while spearing what you could with your fork in the other. Despite her mother’s overabundant table, each meal was a melee. Michael, she had said with relish, was welcome to police her eating habits as long as he didn’t mind when she showed him how a lady used her fork.

After dinner she began to feel much more herself again, if somewhat overstuffed. Luna was waiting for her in the entrance hall, and they hugged, wordlessly, before Ginny spoke.

“Thank you, for this morning”

“You’re welcome. I thought Arnold could cuddle you, since I had to go to breakfast.”

“I liked the duck, too”

Luna giggled. “It was meant to be a Pated Gogwhistler, but I suppose they do look a bit duckish. To the layman.”

“One day I’ll figure out where you get all these names from.”

“No you won’t. Ready to explore the mysteries of the beyond?”

“Hah. I don’t know.” Ginny began to tell Luna about her feet, feeling like she was walking on clouds. The feeling was not as strong as before, but it remained.

They had arrived at Crowley’s classroom, evidently somewhat early. No-one else was waiting, so it seemed like a good opportunity to discuss her worries with the Professor. Luna agreed to stand guard outside while Ginny, after knocking gently, went in.

She was met with an extraordinary scene. What appeared to be an entire tree floated, revolving, in the center of the classroom. It hurt her eyes to look at it - a trick of perspective, surely, as she seemed to be looking up from the ground at it and down from an eagle’s view simultaneously. Just as she began to catch strange details - what looked like houses, entire cities in miniature built along its branches - it vanished in a blooming green flame and the classroom was empty.

Crowley’s office door opened and the man himself stepped out, drying his hands busily on his robe. He stopped and stared at her.

“My goodness, Miss Weasley…What are… you doing in here?”

“I was hoping to…” Ginny was interrupted as Crowley rushed towards her, raising a hand in what she briefly recognised as the aether sign and suddenly, almost instantly, she breathed cold clear air. He was standing before her, face red with what she was sure was anger, but before he spoke he exhaled hugely.

“Whooooo-ah good lord Ginny, that was most… perilous, most perilous indeed. You could have…well, I don’t know why you didn’t, in fact. What on earth possessed you to enter the room?”

Ginny was non-plussed. “It’s nearly time for class, Professor? Jacob, sorry. And I wanted to ask you something before we started. What was that…tree? All about?”

“A tree… heh. Interesting, that it should mani…and yet you stand, apparently awake… Most curious.”

“Professor?”

He looked startled, pausing mid-reverie. “Ah. Yes, I suppose some explanation is in order. You saw…what you saw because the room is currently filled with a cleansing spirit, a fluid made gaseous… by incandescent fire. Its usual effect, it must be said, on the unprepared human nervous system is quite catastrophic but you some…how seem to have been able to stand it for several seconds. If you look carefully beyond the bounds of the bubble, you may be able to see it - a sli…ght greenish tinge to the air?”

Indeed, there was a faint, oily film of green suspended in the air. “Oh. Right. Um. Why?”

“I really can’t say…possibly the vitreous fluid contains some derivative of copper.”

“Um. I actually meant to ask, why is the room filled with…cleansing gas?”

“Ah, yes. Vital preparation for today’s class. If we are to travel the astral planes, we must be safe - completely - while our minds are away. Hogwarts is a place with much history - usually a good thing, of… course, but in this case we are at risk of interference from many directions.”

“Right. Ghosts coming in through the walls, that sort of thing.”

“That sort of thing, yes.”

“It’s actually about that I wanted to ask you…Jacob.” Ginny swallowed. She had been ready to back out of it, but after a cue like that…

“I had… a long time ago, there was… well, what I mean is…”

“You were wondering if, once possessed, possession could be made easier a second time.” For all his smugness, Crowley’s eyes were kind. How did he know?

“God. Yes, more or less. I was…possessed once, by Voldemort and… Well, if my mind is ‘away’, could…”

“Probably not. I will not say ‘certainly’, but I am confident first that… my preparations have banished the chance of any interference with our sleeping minds, let alone that from a wizard who… is as I understand it, both far from here and definitively, now, mortal.”

“Probably not. Okay,” Ginny replied, not nearly as reassured as she sounded, “I suppose I’ll have to go with that.”

“Nothing is ever certain, Ginny - but the odds are suitably enormous, shall we say. Ingesting that gas, on the other hand… that could be a problem”

“Do you mean I won’t be able to… do whatever we’re doing?”

Crowley frowned. Suddenly he looked much older than his apparent years. “Not a phrase I often use but… I don’t know. Much of what we will undertake today relies on the transitive properties of var…ious herbs and succulents, including some considered poisonous - only when eaten in quantity, mind you. There is always…”

“Uncertainty,” Ginny finished for him. “Well, I think I’ll risk it. If I get poisoned though, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

A broad smile broke over Crowley’s face, and it struck Ginny that this was the first she had seen that was not tainted with smugness or a mask of performance. Perhaps the real wizard, whoever he was, behind the ‘amusing foreigner’ act had shone through for a moment.

He straightened up as the door opened, clapping Ginny on the shoulder - though she hardly felt it - and bustling towards the tea engine. She gave Luna a Significant Eyebrow as her friend trooped in with the rest of the class, and they took a pair of rather hideous tartan cushions to one of the low, broad couches at the back of the room.

Once they were all various degrees of settled, Crowley turned away from the brass-and-copper engine which was now giving out small puffs of bright orange steam.

“Glad to see we are all here gathered. I hope you have all feasted satis…factorily, for we are going to undertake a journey that will draw, I am… afraid, greatly on your reserves of strength. Yes, Theodore?”

Nott had raised his hand. When he spoke there was none of the languid arrogance typical of Slytherins Ginny was acquainted with. In fact he sounded rather bored, though this may have been simply a natural consequence of being one of the only Slytherins smart enough to make it to the class, she thought.

“Jacob, will any time pass here when we travel?”

Crowley looked pleased. “An interesting quest…ion. As usual, the answer is both yes, and no. In the prime material, time will continue to pass as it normally does. Between the mind - your mind, that is - entering the state of near-sleep that allows us to traverse the planes, and the moment of awakening after the journey, no time will pass at all - or so it would appear.”

Crowley waved a hand lazily and the tea engine gave a cheery toot. “However,” he continued, evidently warming to his theme, “Time is sub…jective. For all our clocks and watches and other little devices, we have no more understanding of what time really is than any given mollusc. We simply measure it, in arbitrary… snips and snaps and say, oh look, an hour has passed. Passed where, to whom, with what? Who knows. It is with our minds that we keep time, and it is our minds that will be wandering the realm of Flame today - will time, then, be passing for us?”

Luna, who had been staring at a point some six inches above and to the left of Crowley’s head for some time, suddenly appeared to wake up. “No,” she said, quite flatly. Crowley did not appear in the least perturbed.

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it, in any case,” he grinned. “Now, I suppose we should get… on with things. Allow me to explain…”

According to Crowley, the process of astral travel itself was reasonably simple - the crux lay in suitably limbering up one’s mind to prepare for the experience of existing in what amounted to, as Ginny understood it, another universe. True to Crowley’s form, this preparation seemed to involve drinking a large glass of fiercely orange and sulfurous tea while breathing in smoke and reciting mantras in a language that seemed only vaguely to resemble English. He explained that since he had learned the ways of ‘his art’ in Old High German, so too would they - though apparently it was also possible to speak in Greek, Aramaic, Finnish, Khmer or a variation of the Choctaw language. In any case, it was the patterns and flow of the mantras that mattered, apparently, and so they practiced until Ginny was thoroughly sick of the smell of the tea, the room and of Crowley’s droning voice.

Once he was satisfied, the young professor asked Poppy Caxton to float a large glowing brazier to the center of the room. She managed this admirably - evidently the charm was a strength of hers - and Crowley began root about in a large cupboard filled with hundreds of tiny drawers

Presently he emerged with a silver tray on which sat a squat bundle of purple leaves, two round, shiny brown things that looked to Ginny like nutmegs and a shrivelled white root. He passed the tray around so they could all examine the curious collection - as if, Ginny thought, any of them would have any insight - while he explained what they were. “A handful of dried leaves from the Norway Maple - from the Court of the Crimson King, for those of a certain… age and disposition - the dried and pressed rhizome of a wild radish and can anyone Theodore Padma Luna Daphne Benjamin tell me what these two fragrant… objects are? No? The common kitchen nutmeg, once so highly prized that whole villages in Africa were laid waste for their stocks - now available cheaply in any muggle supermarket. Such is progress. These we… add to the coals in the prescribed manner and they shall wreathe us all in a potent and… I’m afraid rather acrid smoke.”

Ginny wondered what would happen if she coughed at some critical moment - would the spell work? Would it all be ruined? - but Crowley was raising his tea and his bundle of leaves and speaking again.

“Now, is everyone suitably surrounded by pillows? Mr McEwan, avail yourself of another one, you will thank me later. Together then, my friends. First we take a mouthful of the tea - I’m afraid it doesn’t taste like finest oolong, but it’s not actually unpleasant - and then through your nostrils… draw in a breath of the smoke. Not too much, just a little puff - especially if you are unused to smoking! Observe, if you will!”

With a dramatic gesture, Crowley flung the leaves onto the white coals, where they began to smoulder almost immediately. The root and the nutmegs followed, and the smoke that billowed up after them was dark, thick and strangely oily. He took a small sip of the tea, swirled it with evident enjoyment. Waggling his eyebrows to make sure they were all watching, he drew a great breath in through his nose. A small tendril of smoke wound out of his right ear, and he swallowed his mouthful and let out a chuckle.

“And there…you have it. Simply let the smoke mingle with the tea for a second or two and then… drink!”

That sounded easier said than done, Ginny thought. She looked at Luna, who gave her a smile and squeezed her hand as if this was all perfectly normal instead of so much theatrical horsefeathers. Several of the others had already performed the ritual and were now, the occasional wheezing cough aside, looking furtively around to see if anything was meant to happen next. Curiosity won over skepticism, and Ginny drank. The smoke was, indeed, deeply unpleasant. As the flavours mingled in her mouth, she gave Luna another look. Her friend did something Ginny had never seen before - she winked. Behind her, Padma Patil’s eyes rolled back in her head and she flopped bonelessly to the surrounding pillows. Ginny barely had time to register the others dropping like flies before a deep and abiding sense of wrongness infused every part of her body and she

 

 _could see nothing but liquid fire, feel nothing but searing, raw heat. Heat that had sound and taste and texture, somehow_ “Close your eyes” a _nd that she could feel even without seeing_ “It will help” _the columns and plateaus and caverns of liquid fire_ “Take my hand, Ginny” _she reached blindly desperately into the pouring lava feeling the skin flesh bones strip away_ “There

we go. Well done, Ginny.”

The roaring in her ears subsided as she felt solid ground under her feet. Her hand was not burned, she realised, only cold where the rest of her felt deeply overheated. Ginny opened her eyes for the first time in a new world.

Her impressions had not been wrong. They - she, Crowley, Theodore Nott and Poppy Caxton - stood on a ledge above a lake of shimmering lava. In the distance a waterfall - a lavafall? - fell from nowhere to nowhere. Ginny was not often at a loss for words, especially when four-letter words would suffice, but this was something entirely other. They were in what she supposed was a cavern, though it hardly seemed a big enough word - the ceiling stretched far off into blackness and there was nothing by which to judge distance. The lava pouring down from above, a symphony of burnt oranges and glowing reds interspersed with dark rocks, could have been twenty feet away or twenty miles.

“Awe-inspiring, is it not?” Crowley, who was still holding her hand in his own unnaturally cool grasp, spoke to her again. It had been his voice guiding her to this place, she realised, though she had only heard it in tiny snatches through the terrifying journey. As she was about to reply, the air to their right began to wave and smoke with agitation. After a brief inquiry, the professor let go of her hand and strode to the shimmering patch, where a human figure was beginning to take shape. He spoke in soft words and held out his hand - his other hand, she noticed, the one she had held was red and shiny as if… as if it had been badly burned. Nott and Caxton looked around as the newcomer emerged, fading into existence, clutching Crowley’s hand, gasping for breath, a shock of blonde hair blown back by the searing heat. It was Luna. Ginny staggered over and put her arm around her friend, nodding to the professor as he dashed off to take care of two more arrivals. Luna’s skin was feverish, her pupils shrunk to tiny black specks, but she didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised by her surroundings.

“Oh, hello Ginny. So this is the plane of fire? It’s very warm.”

Ginny laughed at that. Even the usually dour Nott grinned, and Luna giggled quietly when she saw the look on her friend’s face. Before long the whole class had arrived on the small ledge, with varying degrees of shock and wonder written on their faces. There were a few moments of silence - comparative silence, above the neverending hiss and roar of the steaming lava.

“My friends,” Crowley’s voice boomed and echoed through the superheated air, “Welcome. We are now, truly, somewhere _else_. The realm of fire, from whence all primal flames were kindled and the font that, very soon, you will channel to produce flames of your own.”

He was interrupted by the noise of Terry Boot being heartily sick. A couple of the other students moved to tend to him, though there was no visible - Ginny shuddered to herself at the world - splatter. Crowley made to move towards Boot, but stopped when he noticed too.

“As…tonishing. Internal fluids seem not to mani…fest alongside us. Since we so rarely stop to consider our effuvia I… wonder.” He paused, looking off into the middle distance, and then made a brief but mildly disgusted face. “Research for another time per…haps Mr Boot, are you quite well?”

Boot gave a weak thumbs up, still bent double but now audibly in the heavy-breathing phase of post-vomit recovery.

Crowley turned to look at the distant flow of lava and continued “On my first visit to another astral plane, I was rendered entirely immobile for more… than twenty minutes and subjected to terrifying hallucinations of a Venus Fly… trap, so I suppose you might count yourself lucky, but I apologise none…theless, Mr Boot, and I am glad that the rest of you appear… not to have suffered any ill effects. The processes have been refined somewhat by my… colleagues and I from what I might call the ‘old ways’. There is almost a research journal, in a samizdat sort of… fashion.”

Having wandered somewhat off topic, Crowley turned and addressed the class. Ginny tried to listen, but her eyes wandered over the fantastic landscape. The more she looked, the more impossibilities she saw. There was no reason to suppose, she realised, that another astral realm would follow the same laws as her own, which didn’t make her feel any better about the small fountains of lava that were unmistakably flowing upwards. Great billows of superheated air were also blossoming from nowhere and continuing across the cavernous space as roiling, shimmering spheres. They seemed quite well protected on their ledge however.

Ginny realised the rest of the class were actually paying attention, and were beginning to contort their fingers into the sign of the flame. To his credit, Crowley did not try to fob them off with any nonsense about the fingers forming a gateway or opening a channel: “We don’t know why. It just works. Who… discovered it, whether it must be done only with fingers… who knows? We are a obscure and… underfunded science.”

One by one, Crowley had them stand on the lip of the ledge, raise their arm, make the sign and ‘reach’ for the power of the realm, “draw it within yourself, or open a door I do sincerely ap…ologise to that font of power.”

The first time through, nobody got it. The second time, Padma Patil shrieked but did not flinch as a tiny pink-tinged flame danced at her fingertip. Shortly after that Terry Boot made an actual fireball, which rolled and crackled for a few seconds before winking out and leaving black spots dancing on her vision. In the two hours (as far as time existed as a concept) that followed, most of the class managed to conjure up a flame of one kind or another, with some taking direction from Crowley as he told them how to gently move the flames and shape them, others practicing holding and maintaining, Luna attempting to make a tiny purple flame move from hand to hand like a pet, and Ginny _couldn’t fucking do it._

Not a flame, not a spark, not even a warm sensation. She couldn’t, not even with Crowley’s help and guidance, fucking _do it_.

And when they returned, in blackness and smoke, to the classroom to near-total physical exhaustion, Ginny was the only one who still couldn’t.

### The Realm of Earth

Clearly there was wind, raging and tearing at the barren scrub all around them, but to Ginny it felt like a gentle breeze, plucking lightly at the sleeves of her robe as she raised her arms and formed the sign Crowley had taught them. The looming mountains around her looked almost scornful, pitying this tiny human and her tiny games.

It wasn’t hard, after the first few times, to hold both images in her mind - she was lying, asleep to the casual observer, on the thickly-carpeted floor of the classroom. They had, after Crowley’s brief introduction, drunk a searingly hot tea flavoured with cardamom and something else, a rough tannin that had left her wanting cool water. Caxton and Nott had lit the braziers, demonstrating a grasp of the fire magic that had left her frustrated and jealous once again. It seemed completely unfair that the most elementary of skills was denied her, especially when the rest of the class had thrived, after a moment’s disorientation, in the volcanic realm during their return visits, casting great gouts of yellow and blue flame. Crowley had been adamant that she had the talent, innately, to do what her classmates had done. “In time, Ginny, in time. Have no doubts that it will come, in time, and more potently than anyone here.” Which had caused her to make a strangled noise, because making a strangled noise was better than exclaiming “Horseshit!” out loud.

She had practiced the sign until her fingers cramped and clicked, but not even the weakest flame would come. Water was easier and her control became much stronger as they practiced in the luminescent twilight of the coral caves, gushing stream after stream against the rocks. It was one area where she and Luna were equally matched, and they had delighted in standing back to back, sending glittering torrents up to the roof where they were tinged with green or pink or purple from the shimmering cavelights. Later, in bed, Ginny had thought back over the evening’s events. To her mild surprise, it was not the sensation of power that thrilled her as much as the closeness, the touch and weight of her friend behind her. They had been one person, moving in tandem. Ginny had fallen asleep wrapped in thoughts of blonde hair and fair skin, restless all night. It would have been some comfort to know, perhaps, that in another part of the castle Luna was doing much the same, and not for the first time.

This class was somewhat different. Through no design of her own, Ginny had ended up several places away from Luna in the strange ring of mountains. Though in reality - whatever that was - they were only a few centimetres from each other in the classroom, her friend was several dozen feet away to Ginny’s left, concentrating on her stance much as Ginny was supposed to be. What had Crowley said, as he strode around the classroom sprinkling those fine flakes of green and purple on the glowing coals in each brazier - salvia dorrii, desert sage, a finely scented improvement to the dreadful dried bladderwrack they had burned to aid passage to the plane of water. “A natural amphitheatre, formed by centuries of erosion and tectonic… movement. Our expressions of power will… be dampened somewhat by the nature of the place something you will… quickly find all to the good.”

Crowley was stalking around behind her now, correcting and adjusting her fellow sorcerors as they assumed the pose of Earth mages. It hardly felt strange at all to refer to them that way, though Daphne Greengrass had visibly balked at the title ‘Sorceress’, and Ginny couldn’t blame her. Dark associations aside, it was as outdated and patriarchal as ‘actress’ or ‘waitress’ - or ‘witch’, she supposed. Hermione had spent a lazy sunny afternoon explaining to her that in the old days, muggle actresses were generally equated with prostitutes - expected to offer ‘favours’ to their lead actors and male theatre patrons in the hopes of advancement. Even if those days were gone, the older girl had said, it was much the same now: men usually saw women as either weak and in need of protection and guidance, or too uppity for their own good and in need of taking down a peg or two.

It had never occurred to Ginny that men viewed women this way, but as soon as Hermione had said it, she realised that it was true. She had been gratified by how far from that worldview Harry had seemed to be - his ridiculous insistence on protecting her from all evil was rooted in his equally ridiculous hero complex, and he applied it equally to all his friends regardless of their gender. Her brothers, with the exception of Fred and George, were less enlightened, and Ginny had taken every opportunity to administer a swift kicking to their notions of feminine weakness whenever the occasion arose. Thus had her Bat Bogey hex passed into family legend...

“Imposing as the scenery...no doubt is, Ginny, you are telling it to do something very unpleasant in Goblin thiefsign as… opposed to making the sign of Jord to summon earthly power.” He sounded amused, close behind her. Ginny quashed any sense of shame, knowing full well that Crowley though no less of her - and indeed that he himself often drifted away from the topic at hand, sometimes in mid-sentence. She corrected her stance and, as her fingers formed the sigil correctly this time, felt a ripple of power flow up through her feet. Compared to the almost unbearable intensity she had felt in the coral cave, this was a strangely muted, trickling sensation. She was about to turn her head and ask Crowley about it, but he addressed them all from the centre of the circle.

“By now you have surely felt the… sensations of power arising from the soil on which you stand… left foot, Mr McEwan - there we are, much...better the more astute amongst you may have noticed that… there is somewhat less of a rush than you may have become accustomed to. In simple terms this is because today we stand not, as before, in the elemental...realm of earth, but on our Earth, the same planet upon which we all live and walk. The realm of earth… as I intimated to you earlier in the term is a dangerous place, even...for those who travel only in spirit. Today then...we stand in Drakensberg, the Dragon Mountains, in what will one day be a popular site for Muggle tourists. Please...refrain from carving your name in the rocks, it will only upset future anthropologists.”

There were a few giggles at this, but Ginny was concentrating. At the tips of her fingers, painfully crossed as they were, dust and fragments of soil were accumulating. She was not doing it intentionally, she knew. Was this what Crowley had meant by earth being dangerous? She had hardly any control over this power, and it seemed to be acting independently of her. Thankfully, her suspicions were allayed - if only slightly - by Crowley as he continued to speak.

“It would be a mistake to hear ‘earth’ and think ‘soil’ or ‘sand’. That upon which we stand is only the skin, the very few metres on top of unimaginable... vastnesses of rock, bones of earth and blood of liquid magma. You may find that… you are already gathering material, willingly or not, and this… is as it should be. We do not conjure gouts of flame here, nor… torrents of water. Instead we feel, deep in the earth, the currents of move...ment and we push, pull, turn. Reach out now, through the earth, through the ground at… your feet and feel the earth, feel how it lies in layers and plates.”

More or less nonsensical though his words were, Ginny could feel what he meant. There was a sense of depth and solidity and great, great power simply… waiting? Boot had talked about potential energy, the fire waiting to be unleashed, and that was what she felt like now. She remembered a tale from childhood that had shaken her, that the hills and valleys were sleeping giants waiting to be woken and one day they would rise… that was what she felt under the earth, in that ring of mountains.

Ginny was one of the first, to her gratification, to feel a fault in the booming depths of earth. She, yes, reached with her mind and there it was - a metre wide, or fathomless and huge, she couldn’t tell. With all her strength she grasped at the gap in the rock and pulled. The ground she stood on trembled. A few dozen feet away stood a dry, twisted tree with oily-looking leaves, desiccated from long exposure to the African sun. As she watched, feeling the now familiar roar of the elemental power, blood pounding in her ears, an enormous spike of rock turned the tree to splinters, piercing the soil and rising, rising…

“My… goodness, Ginny. A boulder or two would have been quite enough.” Crowley’s tone was dry and laconic, but she could tell he was impressed. The towering rock was dark, wet, jagged - no wind had smoothed its surface down there, of course, and it was still rising! The tip of the spire was a good twenty feet above the surface when it finally ground to a halt. Ginny started, noticing for the first time that she had dropped her arms to her sides as soon as the rock first came up.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she said quietly. Crowley had evidently heard her, for he called out to them all: “‘ware the power of the realm of earth, my friends. Push a pebble from a mountaintop and watch it become a landslide. Dig a hole for water and see the earth rent asunder into canyons and valleys… this is all needlessly… dramatic of course but… oh, very well done, Mr McEwan!”

Ginny turned to see a near-perfect sphere of rock rising from the ground, shedding dust and small plants and one rather unfortunate rabbit. McEwan looked as though he was straining, though, and after a momentary levitation the rock fell and shattered, a great boom echoing around the amphitheatre.

“Miss Weasley, Mr McEwan, first prize. Enormous power, Ginny, quite astonishing, and excellent control, Benjamin - the power to sustain it will come in time.”

Gratified though she was to finally achieve something of note in the class, with little effort as it felt to her, Ginny was slightly stung by Crowley’s implication that she didn’t have control over her ‘astonishing’ power. Over the next couple of hours, as the other sorcerors achieved varying degrees of success - or didn’t - she concentrated on breaking smaller and smaller chunks off the spire of rock. By the end she had whittled it down to a fairly smooth and straight column, the remnants scattered around in small fragments. Crowley was evidently impressed, though he spent more time helping McEwan develop his technique and encouraging Padma Patil, who was having difficulty conjuring more than a small pebble or two. The sun was setting over the mountains, creating a spectacular sight that they were nearly all too exhausted to appreciate, before Crowley called a halt. Luna quickly came over and, to her surprise, grabbed Ginny by the hand.

“You’re amazing!” she said, an urgency in her voice Ginny had rarely heard before, “You did something no-one else could match and you did it before anyone else and…”

“Luna!” Ginny squeezed her friend’s hand in an attempt to cut her off mid-flow, “It’s okay! I know, it’s pretty cool but I don’t need… validation or anything, it’s okay.” Luna looked a little mollified, then her hand flew to her mouth in shock at her own outburst. “I… sorry, I thought… because he didn’t...and then you might have felt like… but I wanted… you know, I thought…”

Ginny pulled her friend into a tight embrace, not least to stem the flow of Luna’s embarrassment. It was clear that she thought Ginny had not received enough praise for her skills, which was eternally, unbearably sweet but also, she thought, entirely wrong. Praise was a currency dealt out far too easily to the only female child of a large family, and it had long ceased to have any meaning to Ginny. Encouragement, a challenge to do better, those things would spark a fire under her, but praise was more or less meaningless. Coming from Luna, however, there was something far more than words. That her friend had thought only of coming to her and showering her with words of affection, exhausted though she clearly was, meant worlds and more than worlds. They held hands as they looked up at the pillar Ginny had carved. The red-haired witch could feel the closeness of her companion and was comforted by it. She had not realised how much energy she’d expended over the past few hours - she could feel the deep, soul-sucking exhaustion pulling at her.

They wandered over to see Luna’s work, and Ginny found herself impressed despite the relatively small size of the stone forms before her. It was a flower, of a kind, with one of the spiky, scrubby bushes of this landscape at its centre. Luna had pulled up several similar shards of red rock, veined with glittering metal, and laid them around the bush to make petals. Crowley, making his way over, pronounced her control excellent and her artistic flair “inspired”, informing them that ore-bearing rocks were tricky to handle correctly. Luna was far more pleased by this than she let on.

The professor showed them how to focus their power and direct it, shattering each rock formation in turn. When he came to Ginny’s, he offered her the chance to do it herself. She raised her free hand and drew up the might of the earth beneath her feet. Concentrating hard on the base of the column she’d made, she saw a few dust motes shift, then a pebble or two then, as she focused hard and let the power drain through her fingers, the column split in two, a crack running from the base jaggedly to the very tip. Crowley walked over and, with some ceremony, gave one half of the column a light poke. It crumbled, taking the other half with it.

He gave her a small nod as he passed on to Nott - encouraging? Perhaps, she thought. Anyway, it didn’t much matter. She had far more important things on her mind, like how neither Luna or her had let go of each other for at least twenty minutes, and how okay the normally touch-phobic girl seemed with that and, for that matter, how okay - more than okay - Ginny herself was with that.

They returned to the classroom in short order. This time, only Padma Patil rushed off to vomit. When she had returned, flushed and sweaty but determined, Crowley offered them all his thanks and dismissed them, declaring it too late for a debriefing this time. Luna and Ginny walked behind the others as they stumbled, in various states of total exhaustion, towards their respective dormitories.

It was not entirely to Ginny’s surprise that they found themselves hanging back - not deliberately, not with any intention, but by some trick of time or tide, the two girls were eventually alone in the darkened Entrance Hall, at the foot of the stairs where their paths divided. They had been talking about the mountains - Luna had once read an article about cryptids of the Great Rift Valley which had mentioned the Drakensberg mountains and the unusual formation they had done some considerable, if temporary, damage to. The blonde witch’s speech pattered off as they both realised.

Once again, they were holding hands. It felt natural, comfortable. Luna, who rarely touched or could stand to be touched, seemed more at ease and more present than she ever did normally. Ginny, in her turn, could feel a frisson of enjoyment at the simple sensation of this prolonged intimacy.

“Well... see you in the morning?” The hesitancy in Luna’s voice spoke volumes. She had been uncharacteristically confident earlier and now, where they were forced to part, that self-assuredness seemed to be draining away. Later, Ginny’s brain performing the frantic self-analysis she tried normally to avoid, she would have no idea why she had done it. Love, or lust, or even a sense of ‘rightness’ in her actions, did not seem to apply. It was simple, natural, the easiest thing in the world. Ginny reached out, took Luna’s other hand, pulled the girl - her friend, her confidant, the object, she knew now, of far more than just friendly affection - close. Luna’s eyes were half closed. The breath caught in her throat. She knew, given the chance, that Luna would say something, anything and so, obviously, Ginny kissed her.

Worlds did not end. Fireworks failed to go off. Trumpets did not sound from the heavens and no angry voices were raised in condemnation. It was just a kiss and it was, for a short moment, the entire universe.

The moment ended, they broke apart - unwillingly, only the barest distance from each other - and each caught the other’s eye for the first time in minutes, or hours.

“I…”

“...me too.”

 

### The Realm of Air

Moments slipped together like beads of water on a spider’s thread, but Luna recognised one thing clearly enough: This was her place. As before, she knew that she was lying comfortably on the floor of the classroom, eyes focused on nothing, the tips of her fingers touching Ginny’s in an embrace that thrilled a small part of her. She also knew that she stood on nothing at all, buoyed by the zepyhrs and master of a world she had never seen before.

Crowley had warned them it would be disorienting. “Humans are… inclined to judge themselves by where they place their feet. Even in...the plane of water there is the feeling of being, of occupying space. When you travel in the wind’s court, however, you will find that there is little to say ‘you are here’. When you first arrive, you may feel a strong falling sensation - this is an illusion, prompted by the monkey brain suddenly finding itself without even a faint sense of what is up and what is down. You will not fall, because there is nowhere to fall towards. Be calm, be patient, and find each other as I have shown you”.

Luna allowed herself the pleasurable sensation of floating on nothing for a few moments more. She was surprised at how little sound there was up here - wherever ‘here’ was, or ‘up’ for that matter. Evidently the breezes and currents were roaring around her, but she seemed to be in a small bubble of quiet civility. She reached out with her senses, seeking Ginny and the others. 

It was a mark of how far she had come, from her initial panic in the fire plane, that when Luna found nothing, no signs of life, she barely wavered. She knew now that travelers arrived at different times, depending on how well attuned to the place they were. Perhaps she had simply arrived before anyone else.

Thinking she may as well entertain herself while she waited, Luna decided that now was as good a time as any to try flying. Though Crowley had said there was no up or down in the realm of air, there certainly seemed - to her confused monkey senses, no doubt - to be a natural direction in which to try a swoop. 

Luna’s insides were wrenched from her. Eyes streaming, tumbling, nauseous, she fought to stop her limbs from flailing wildly. As her vision began to clear, she judged that she must have fallen at least two hundred feet in a few seconds. The urge to vomit began to subside, and just as she was entertaining the idea of trying another swoop she felt a sudden twinge. There was someone else here. Far above or below or beside her, she saw, a tiny dot was expanding. The closer it got, she realised, the faster it was going. 

It was McEwan. Plummeting head first, flapping his arms in a pathetic parody of flight, a look of utter panic on his stricken features. Luna took a deep breath and swooped again. The stomach-wrenching feeling was not so strong this time, and she was able to open her eyes long enough to judge her fall. Fingers scrabbling for purchase, she managed to grab the very edge of McEwan’s collar and pull hard. It did not have the desired effect - now she was falling too, and with a large and terrified Hufflepuff screaming in her ear. Fear began to replace the nausea - what if they fell forever? That there was nothing to break their fall did not seem, in this instance, a comfort. 

Her hand. Ginny’s fingers. The memory of their touch. Crowley’s odd diction, a clipped Crowley-English dictionary being read aloud. Sometimes in adversity, he had said, sometimes in euphoria, and sometimes in direst need. 

For Luna, it felt as though she had opened a door into the bottom of a lake. Instantly she was surrounded, suffused, one with the power flowing through her. A veritable hurricane poured from her outstretched hand, yanking them from their nosedive, sending them spinning away from the vertical drop. Luna wrestled with the flow of power, attempting to slow them down, but it seemed as though she had simply exchanged one problem for another.

Gradually, though, she realised that they were no longer spinning as fast. She had not paid McEwan much attention, but he had seen what she was doing and was imitating her - in the opposite direction. Polar forces, two powerful gusts of wind blowing away from each other - Luna closed her fist, forcing herself to match his spell, and they began at last to slow.

When they had reached what she judged to be a gentle drift, Luna finally breathed out. McEwan’s eyes were bulging, but he appeared to be reining in his panic. “Ben?” she said, as calmly as she could manage, “Ben, I’m going to let go now. Okay?”

His mouth opened but clearly the fall had rendered him temporarily incapable of speech. “It’s okay!” Luna said hurriedly, “It’s okay. I promise. You just drift - don’t try to move around. It’s not like swimming, or anything else. Just don’t move, okay?”

McEwan managed a nod while attempting to remain entirely still - quite a feat.

Luna found earth magic as hard as she had initially found fire, but she managed to start conjuring a few pebbles and small rocks. When McEwan saw what she was doing, he cautiously joined in. His earth magic was much stronger than hers, she saw, and within a few minutes they had conjured a wide circular platform of flat rocks bound together by red clay. Luna found that by concentrating, she could conjure a gentle gust of wind to propel herself down. Reaching out a tentative foot, she stepped gingerly on to the platform. 

When it held, McEwan came down as well - with somewhat less grace. In a voice hoarse from screaming, he said “Er. Thanks. Thanks, Lovegood. Got a bit, er, panicked there”. Without warning, he pulled her into a rough embrace. Luna disentangled herself just as quickly. 

“You’re welcome,” she said as cheerily as she could manage. The awkwardness was broken, thankfully, by a full-throated shriek from nearby. Daphne Greengrass was hurtling towards them at speed, furiously attempting to slow herself down. The part of Luna’s mind that was always observing, questioning, taking notes marvelled at the ease with which she drew on the fount of power now. Raising one hand, she cast a curving breeze that slowed the Slytherin girl and brought her swinging around to stumble onto the paved platform. Greengrass waved a hand in thanks and promptly lay flat on her back, evidently determined never to leave solid ground again. 

One by one, over the next few minutes, they all arrived. Boot fell nearly a hundred feet straight to the platform - only Daphne’s quick work saved him from a broken neck as Luna was helping McEwan and Padma Patil create some walls of conjured rock to offer some shelter from the winds that roared around them. Luna tried to imitate the broad, flat rocks McEwan seemed to specialise in, a task made much easier when he told her they were facsimiles of the stones of his garden path at home. Though her house in Ottery St Catchpole did not have a garden path - it would have disturbed the passage of the Snargaluffs, after all - the mental image made it much easier to conjure the stones.

Ginny, when she arrived, had the decency to look abashed at the ease with which she swooped to the platform. She later admitted privately to Luna that she had been practicing flying for half an hour before she had even noticed the others. It was nearly an hour later, with much animated discussion about the strengths and weaknesses of this power, and who felt they had it mastered - Luna remained silent, though she had privately observed that only Poppy Caxton had a similar affinity to her own - that Nott stood up suddenly and, in the ensuing silence - said something that even Luna had not noticed.

“He’s not here.” 

The ringing silence that followed lasted only a few seconds before furious discussion resumed. Ginny grabbed her hand, thrilling Luna despite herself, and they sat back and let the others wear themselves out arguing. That it was a test of their abilities was the majority opinion, with the opposition faction firmly convinced that they were now stranded permanently on a few rocks in an ocean of nothingness and should, in due course, start drawing lots as to who would be eaten first. Since they were still holding hands, still pressed shoulder to shoulder and still definitely taking comfort from one another’s presence, Luna felt it wouldn’t be too out of character if she rested her head on Ginny’s shoulder. That her friend then shifted to put her arm around Luna and make her more comfortable was joy beyond measure, even in such a tiny way. 

Was it all a test? It didn’t seem in Crowley’s nature not to tip them the wink beforehand. Then again, he wasn’t much for school protocols in the first place, and maybe the most effective test was the one you didn’t know you were taking. Luna mentioned this to Ginny.

“I don’t know. Maybe, but that doesn’t seem like his style. Letting us all figure out this one by ourselves, yes - but not showing up to gloat about it afterwards? I think he’d be here if he could.”

Luna was slightly surprised by the casual bitterness in her friend’s tone, but said nothing. Ginny had always had a fiery temper, especially in the face of perceived danger. Recently though, even with all the provocations of the Minions and their regime, she had been less inclined to spit curses and throw punches; instead she spoke with deadly calm and blazing eye. As Luna had grown, she supposed, from weirdo to wallflower to dispassionate observer, Ginny too had harnessed the rage that often burst out of her and turned it inward, coiling like a spring under each new jackboot. Luna had been sure that Snape was, at the very least, going to have bats slithering from his hooked nose as he had taunted them cruelly in the aftermath of the raid on his office - but Ginny had simply looked him dead in the eye and said nothing at all. 

Luna was not sure who scared her more, sometimes. She reached up and squeezed Ginny’s hand, and was rewarded by a brief, sunny smile breaking through her friend’s countenance. Ginny went on. “The thing that’s bothering me is that we don’t know the process to get back. Do we just wish ourselves home with a click of our heels? That seems a bit too Beedle the Bard. Why are you giggling?” she asked Luna, who hadn’t been able to stop herself.

“I was picturing you clicking your heels, then I was… um, picturing you. In heels.”

Ginny cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t fancy my lovely boots?” 

“I quite like all your choices of footwear,” Luna was grateful for the diversion but Ginny was having none of it, giving her arm a playful squeeze.

“Come on then Lovegood, what’s so funny about me wearing heels?”

“I was picturing you wearing boots like yours actually, but with pointy heels. And sort of… is it platforms, they’re called?”

Ginny wasn’t much more up on contemporary fashion than Luna, but she seemed to grasp what Luna was talking about.

“Like… stripper boots?”

“What’s a stripper?”

“I’m not sure, it’s a muggle thing. Harry got quite embarrassed when I asked him. But I think they wear boots like that.”

“Oh. Anyway, I didn’t giggle because it was funny, I didn’t meant to giggle. But you looked good in them.”

Luna looked up at Ginny and realised that far from being annoyed or amused, the redhead had a thoughtful expression on her face. Whatever she was about to say, it died on her lips - as with a shriek, Padma Patil was pulled backwards over the lip of their rocky platform, wrapped by shimmering green light. Ginny gripped Luna fiercely as, in rapid succession, their refuge was pulled apart and each of the apprentice sorcerers was transfixed by the same strands of swirling green. As they were pulled into a soundless green void, Ginny and Luna held each other close.

***

Darkness becomes, or has always been, a place. Then darkness is not, and there is enough of something to see the darkness by - she won’t call it light, because light has a source, gives off heat or smoke - this is illumination. They are nowhere, “they” are nobody, and they do not have a voice. She cannot turn to see the others, but she knows for a surety they are there. And so is someone else.

He moves without sound - not quietly or stealthily, but with no sound at all, though he appears to wear heavy armour of something like bone, boots that should tread heavy if there was anything to tread on. Down is the same as up, as far as she can tell. He is not interested in them. He circles them, aware of them but only, she feels, in the same way as fish are aware of the ocean. Then he stops, and stands straight. His staff, or spear - of bone and bronze and wickedly hooked - is held close and tight. And something else comes from nowhere to nowhere. It is tall, and its skin is pale grey, and its expression is that of a mycologist examining an intriguing fungus. It looks at them each, in turn. In its eyes, which are narrow, quick to blink, and stretch farther around the side of its head than normal eyes should, there is neither mercy nor pity - just a fraction of interest. It steps back, nods to the other, then speaks a single, silent word. 

*** 

Luna opened her eyes, or possibly they had already been open. For an instant before her vision cleared, there was the faintest impression of a branch, golden-lit and wrapped with… and then the image and the idea were gone. Her hand was warm and, as she turned her head, she saw Ginny awaken as well. The classroom was nearly dark, with only a single brazier burning low in the center. The others were waking up as well now, and beginning to look worried. When Padma looked at her watch and exclaimed that it was nearly midnight, there was a general outcry - where was the professor? What had happened in the plane of Air? It became clear to Luna that the last thing everybody remembered was a flash of green light and a falling sensation. Nearly five hours had passed where before, they had barely taken minutes. And nowhere to be found was the strange young man who’d sent them there. Experimentally, Nott had tried his office door - it was locked fast. After a few minutes of general consternation, Ben McEwan was the first to make for the door. Before he could wrench it open, to Ginny’s mild astonishment, Daphne Greengrass stepped in his way. 

“No. If they catch any of us wandering the school at midnight, we’ll all be in for it.”

McEwan scoffed, but his face was pale. “What do you expect us to do, stay in here all night?”

“Disillusionment Charms,” somebody piped up. Luna gathered, from the way everyone turned to look, that it had been her. “If we all put on a Disillusionment Charm, we stand a better chance of getting back unseen.”

“What’s a Disillusionment Charm?” asked Poppy Caxton. Luna could not bear the sensation of being the subject of so much attention. She could have kissed Ginny, therefore, for stepping forward. “It sort of blends you into the background. It’s not hard, you can do it to yourself - you twirl your wand around yourself, like this, and say ‘ Imperkeps conspex ’ - and so saying, Ginny rapidly began to take on the colour and texture of the Turkish carpet they were standing on. Everybody got it after a few goes - Luna helped Poppy, who had not had the benefit of being a DA member - and they left the classroom in pairs after Ginny had told them the counter-charm. 

She and Luna were the last to leave, holding hands as now seemed to be normal. They parted in the entrance hall, doing their best to stay quiet. Luna wasn’t sure if they were supposed to kiss again - now that it had happened once, was that going to be normal too? - but Ginny saved her any further thought, pulling her in for a quick, hard kiss, with a tiny follow-up kiss - a sort of signature, which made Luna melt a little more. With one last squeeze of their clasped hands, they parted, each far too busy thinking about the other as their feet took them up to bed. The next day was the last one of term, and nearly everyone was going home for Christmas. Instead of two common rooms, they would be separated only by a short walk over the hill. Luna had rarely looked forward to Christmas more. 


End file.
